“We can' t do it till the note's due next January,” said Bishop, shortly. “I agreed to keep the money a yeer, an' Martin Doe 'll make me hold to it. But what do you reckon I care as long as I've got some 'n' to meet it with?”
Mrs. Bishop's face fell. “I'd feel better about it if it was cleer,” she faltered. “But the Lord knows we ort to feel thankful to come out as we have. If it hadn't been fer Alan—Mr. Miller said that Alan—”
“Ef you all hadn't made sech a eternal row,” broke in Bishop, testily, “I'd 'a' had more timber-land than this. Colonel Barclay has as fine a strip as any I got, an' he's bantered me for a trade time an' agin.”
Abner Daniel seldom sneered at anybody, no matter what the provocation was, but it seemed impossible for him to refrain from it now.
“You've been lookin' fer the last three months like a man that needed more land,” he said. “Jest no furder back 'an last night you 'lowed ef you could git enough fer yore folly to raise the debt off'n yore farm you'd die happy, an' now yo' re a-frettin' beca'se you didn't buy up the sides o' the earth an' give nobody else a foothold. Le' me tell you the truth, even ef it does hurt a little. Ef Alan hadn't thought o' this heer railroad idea, you'd 'a' been the biggest human pancake that ever lay flat in its own grease.”
“I hain't said nothin' to the contrary,” admitted Bishop, who really took the reproof well. “Alan knows what I think about it.”
Then Bishop and his wife went to Craig's bank, and a moment later Miller returned, rubbing his hands with satisfaction.
“We got through, and he's gone to catch his train,” he said.
“It worked as smooth as goose-grease. I wonder what Pole Baker said to him, or if he saw him. I have an idea he did, from the way Wilson danced to our music.”
“Heer's Pole now,” said Abner, from the door. “Come in heer, you triflin' loafer, an' give an account o' yorese'f.”