S Henry, Aunt Maria's husband, who was the chief farm-hand, was busy patching fences the next morning, Bishop sent over for Pole Baker to drive the spring-wagon. Alan sat beside Pole, and Abner and Bishop and Mrs. Bishop occupied the rear seats.
Alan knew he could trust Pole, drunk or sober, and he confided his plans to the flattered fellow's ears. Pole seemed to weigh all the chances for and against success in his mind as he sat listening, a most grave and portentous expression on his massive face.
“My opinion is the feller 'll be thar as shore as preachin',” he said. “But whether you git his wad or not, that's another question. Miller's as sharp as a briar, an', as he says, if Wilson gits to talkin' about that land to any o' these hill-Billies they 'll bu'st the trade or die tryin'. Jest let 'em heer money's about to change hands an' it 'll make 'em so durn jealous they 'll swear a lie to keep it away from anybody they know. That's human natur'.”
“I believe you are right,” said Alan, pulling a long face; “and I'm afraid Wilson will want to make some inquiries before he closes.”
“Like as not,” opined the driver; “but what I'd do, ef I was a-runnin' it, would be to git some feller to strike up with 'im accidental-like, an' liter'ly fill 'im to the neck with good things about the property without him ever dreamin' he was bein' worked.”
The two exchanged glances. Alan had never looked at the man so admiringly. At that moment he seemed a giant of shrewdness, as well as that of physical strength.
“I believe you are right, Pole,” he said, thoughtfully.