“What? Paid off? Is that so, Nelson?”
Floyd nodded, and then bent more closely over the ledger. “Yes, he paid up to date.”
“Well, that’s queer—or I am, one or the other. Why, boys, I had that fellow on my dead-list. I didn’t think he’d ever raise any money, and if he did I had no idea it would drift our way.”
Floyd left the desk and reached for his hat. Pole was watching him closely.
“Post-office?” he asked.
“Yes.” The two walked part of the way to the front door and paused. Joe Peters was attending a man on the grocery side of the house, and a young woman neatly dressed, with a pretty figure and graceful movement, stood waiting her turn.
“By gum,” Pole exclaimed under his breath, “that’s my little neighbor, Cynthia Porter—the purtiest, neatest an’ best little trick that ever wore a bonnet. I needn’t tell you that, though, you old scamp. You’ve already found it out. Go wait on ’er, Nelson. Don’t keep ’er standin’ thar.”
Pole sat on a bag of coffee and his friend went to the girl.
“Good morning, Miss Cynthia,” he said, his hat in his hand. “Peters seems busy. I don’t know much about the stock, but if you’ll tell me what you want I’ll look for it.”
Turning, she stared at him, her big brown eyes under their long lashes wide open as if in surprise.