“Well, we are in the market,” was the answer. “Where are they?”
“I didn't fetch 'em in to-day,” said Pole, dryly. “I never do till I know what they are a-bringin'. You'd better make a bid on a dozen of 'em anyway. They are the finest ever raised on Upper Holly Creek, jest this side o' whar old man Bishop's lumber paradise begins.”
Pole was looking out of the corner of his eye at the stranger, and saw his hand, which was in the act of striking a match, suddenly stay itself.
“We don't bid on produce till we see it,” said the clerk.
“Well, I reckon no harm was done by my axin',” said Pole, who felt the eyes of the stranger on him.
“Do you live near here?” asked Wilson, with a smile half of apology at addressing a stranger, even of Pole's humble stamp.
“No.” Pole laughed and waved his hand towards the mountains in the west, which were plainly discernible in the clear morning light. “No, I'm a mountain shanghai. I reckon it's fifteen mile on a bee-line to my shack.”
“Didn't you say you lived near old Mr. Bishop's place?” asked Wilson, moving towards the open door which led to the veranda.
“I don't know which place o' his'n you mean,” said Pole when they were alone outside and Wilson had lighted his cigar. “That old scamp owns the whole o' creation out our way. Well, I 'll take that back, fer he don't own any land that hain't loaded down with trees, but he's got territory enough. Some thinks he's goin' to seceed from the United States an' elect himself President of his own country.”
Wilson laughed, and then he said: “Have you got a few minutes to spare?”