They all looked at Abner, who was smiling broadly.
“Well, I say git his money,” he replied, with a short, impulsive laugh—“git his money, and then ef you find he's starvin', hand 'im back what you feel you don't need. I look on a thing like this sorter like I did on scramblin' fer the upper holt in war-times. I remember I shot straight at a feller that was climbin' up the enemy's breastworks on his all-fours. I said to myse'f, ef this ball strikes you right, old chap, 'fore you drap over the bank, yo're one less agin the Confederacy; ef it don't you kin pop away at me. I don't think I give 'im anything but a flesh-wound in the back—beca'se he jest sagged down a little an' crawled on—an' that's about the wust you could do fer Wilson. I believe he ort to hold the bag awhile. Alf's hung on to it till his fingers ache an' he's weak at the knees. I never did feel like thar was any harm in passin' a counterfeit bill that some other chap passed on me. Ef the government, with all its high-paid help, cayn't keep crooked shinplasters from slidin' under our noses, it ortn't to kick agin our lookin' out fer ourse'ves.”
“You needn't lose any sleep about the Southern Land and Timber Company, Mrs. Bishop,” said Miller. “They will take care of themselves—in fact, we 'll have to keep our eyes peeled to watch them even if we get this loan. Wilson didn't come up here for his health.”
“Oh, mother's all right,” said Alan, “and so is father, but they must not chip in with that sort of talk before Wilson.”
“Oh no, you mustn't,” said Miller. “In fact, I think you'd better let me and Alan do the talking. You see, if you sit perfectly quiet he 'll think you are reluctant about giving such big security for such a small amount of money, and he will trade faster.”
“Oh, I'm perfectly willin' to keep quiet,” agreed the old man, who now seemed better satisfied.
Pole Baker left the office with long, swinging strides. There was an entrance to the Johnston House through a long corridor opening on the street, and into this Pole slouched. The hotel office was empty save for the clerk who stood behind the counter, looking over the letters in the pigeon-holed key-rack on the wall. There was a big gong overhead which was rung by pulling a cord. It was used for announcing meals and calling the porter. A big china bowl on the counter was filled with wooden tooth-picks, and there was a show-case containing cigars. Pole glanced about cautiously without being noticed by the clerk, and then withdrew into the corridor, where he stood for several minutes, listening. Presently the dining-room door opened and Wilson strolled out and walked up to the counter.
“What sort of cigars have you got?” he said to the clerk.
“Nothing better than ten, three for a quarter,” was the respectful reply, as the clerk recognized the man who had asked for the best room in the house.
Wilson thrust his fingers into his vest-pocket and drew out a cigar. “I guess I can make what I have last me,” he said, transferring his glance to Pole Baker, who had shambled across the room and leaned heavily over the open register. “Want to buy any chickins—fine fryin' size?” he asked the clerk.