“Yes, sir; an' I kin buy it, lock, stock, and barrel, fer five hundred dollars—the feller that owns it ud jump at it like a duck on a June-bug. That's my secret, Mr. Craig. I hain't one dollar to my name, but from this day on I'm goin' to work hard an' save my money till I own that property. I'm a-goin' down to Atlanta next week, whar people don't know me, an' have a lump of it bigger 'n this examined, an' ef it's gold I 'll own the land sooner or later.”
Craig glanced to the rear.
“Come back here,” he said. Opening a door at the end of the warehouse, he led Pole into a more retired spot, where they would be free from possible interruption. Then, in a most persuasive voice, he continued: “Baker, you need a man of experience with you in this. Besides, if there is as much of—of that stuff as you say there is, you wouldn't be able to use all you could make out of it. Now, it might take you a long time to get up the money to buy the land, and there is no telling what might happen in the mean time. I'm in a close place, but I could raise five hundred dollars, or even a thousand. My friends still stick to me, you know. The truth is, Baker, I'd like the best in the world to be able to make money to pay back what some of my friends have lost through me.”
Pole hung his head. He seemed to be speaking half to himself and on the verge of a smile when he replied: “I'd like to see you pay back some of 'em too, Mr. Craig.”
Craig laid his hand gently on Pole's shoulder.
“How about lettin' me see the place, Baker?” he said.
Pole hesitated, and then he met the ex-banker's look with the expression of a man who has resigned himself to a generous impulse.
“Well, some day when you are a-passin' my way, stop in, an' I 'll—”
“How far is it?” broke in Craig, pulling his beard with unsteady fingers.
“A good fifteen miles from heer,” said Pole.