“Alfred,” she asked, sceptically, “how does it happen that you know about the railroad before other folks does?”
“How do I? That's it now—how do I?” and the old man laughed freely. “I've had my fun out o' this thing, listenin' to what every crank said about me bein' cracked, an' so on; but I was jest a-lyin' low waitin' fer my time.”
“Well, I 'll be switched!” ejaculated Abner Daniel, half seriously, half sarcastically. “Geewhilikins! a railroad! I've always said one would pay like rips an' open up a dern good, God-fersaken country. I'm glad you are a-goin' to start one, Alfred.”
Alan's face was filled with an expression of blended doubt and pity for his father's credulity. “Father,” he said, gently, “are you sure you got your information straight?”
“I got it from headquarters.” The old man raised himself on his toes and knocked his heels together, a habit he had not indulged in for many a year. “It was told to me confidentially by a man who knows all about the whole thing, a man who is in the employ o' the company that's goin' to build it.”
“Huh!” the exclamation was Abner Daniel's, “do you mean that Atlanta lawyer, Perkins?”
Bishop stared, his mouth lost some of its pleased firmness, and he ceased the motion of his feet.
“What made you mention his name?” he asked, curiously.
“Oh, I dunno; somehow I jest thought o' him. He looks to me like he mought be buildin' a railroad ur two.”
“Well, that's the man I mean,” said Bishop, more uneasily.