“Too bad!” sighed Abner. “I 'll bet it hurt Alan to see you in that fix.”
“Well, he didn't complain,” said Pole. “But he put his arm around me an' come as nigh cryin' as I ever seed a strong man. 'It's my fault, Pole,' ses he. 'I can see that.' Then him an' Miller both tried to git me to go up-stairs in that fine house an' go to bed an' sleep it off, but I wouldn't. I come on home an' got mad at Sally fer talkin' to me, an' come as nigh as peas hittin' 'er in the jaw. But that's over, Uncle Ab. What I'm in fer now is work. I ain't no fool. I'm on a still hunt, an' I jest want yore private opinion. I don't want you to commit yorese'f, unless you want to; but I'd go more on yore jedgment than any man' s in this county. I want to know ef you think old Craig is a honest man at heart. Now don't say you don't know, an' keep yore mouth shet; fer what I want to know, an' all I want to know, is how you feel about that one thing.”
Abner hung his head down. His long thumb trembled as its nail went under a splinter on the rail and pried it off.
“I see what you are a-drivin' at,” he said. “You jest want to feel shore o' yore ground.” Abner began to chew the splinter and spit out the broken bits. He was silent, under Pole's anxious gaze, for a minute, and then he laughed dryly. “I reckon me 'n' you has about the same suspicions,” he said. “That p'int's been worryin' me fer several days, an' I didn't let it end, thar nuther.”
“Ah! you didn't?” exclaimed Baker. “You say you didn't, Uncle Ab?”
“No; I got so I couldn't lie down at night without the idea poppin' into my head that maybe Craig had made a tool of Winship fer some minor crime an' had hustled 'im out o' the country so he could gobble up what was in the bank an' pose as a injured man in the community.”
“Same heer, pine blank!” said Pole, eagerly. “What did you do, Uncle Ab?”
“I went to Darley an' attended his church last Sunday,” replied the old man, a tense expression in his eyes. “I got a seat in the amen-corner, whar I could see him, an' all through preachin' I watched 'im like a hawk. He didn't look to me like a man who had bu'sted on wind alone. He had a fat, oily, pink look, an' when they axed 'im to lead in prayer it looked to me like he was talkin' more to the people 'an he was to God. I didn't like his whine, an' what he said didn't seem to come from the cellar. But I seed that he was makin' converts to his side as fast as a dog kin trot. The Presbyterians an' Baptists has been accusin' the Methodists o' packin' more bad eggs 'an they have, an' it looks like Craig's crowd's a-goin' to swear he's fresh whether he is or not. After meetin' was over I walked ahead of him an' his fine lady, who has made the mistake o' tryin' to kiver the whole business up with silk an' feathers, an' waited fer 'em nigh the'r gate. I told 'im I wanted a word with 'im, an' they axed me in the parlor. I smelt dinner, but they didn't mention it. I wasn't goin' to eat thar nohow. Well, I set in an' jest told Craig what had been troublin' me. I said the loss o' my folk's money was as bad as death, an' that thar'd been so much talk agin him, an' suspicion, that I had jest come to headquarters. Ef he had any money laid away, I was thar to tell 'im it never would do 'im any good, an' ef he didn't, I wanted to beg his pardon fer my evil thoughts, an' try to git the matter off'n my mind.”
“Good God! did you railly tell 'im that, Uncle Ab?”
“Yes, an' I had a deep-laid reason. I wanted to make 'im mad an' study 'im. He did git mad. He was as red as a dewberry, an' quivered from head to foot. Thar's two kinds o' mad—the justified an' the unjustified. Make a good man rail mad by accusin' 'im, an' he 'll justify hisse'f or bu'st; but ef you make a bad un mad by accusin' 'im, he 'll delight in showin' you he's done wrong—ef it hurts you an' he's safe. Thar's right whar I landed Craig. He had the look, as plain as day, o' sayin', 'Yes, dang you, I did it, an' you cayn't he'p yorese'f!' His wife had gone in the back part o' the house, an' after a while I heerd her new shoes a-creakin' at the door betwixt the two rooms. Now a pair o' shoes don't walk up to a door squeakin' like mice an' then stop all of a sudden without reason. I knowed she was a-listenin', an' I determined she should not heer me say she was purty. I told 'im louder 'an ever that folks was a-talkin', an' a-talkin', an' that fetched her. She flung open the door an' faced me as mad as a turtle on its back. She showed her hand, too, an' I knowed she was in cahoot with 'im. She cussed me black an' blue fer a uncouth, meddlin' devil, an' what not.”