AYBURN MILLER and Alan spent that day on the river trying to catch fish, but with no luck at all, returning empty-handed to the farm-house for a late dinner. They passed the afternoon at target-shooting on the lawn with rifles and revolvers, ending the day by a reckless ride on their horses across the fields, over fences and ditches, after the manner of fox-hunting, a sport not often indulged in in that part of the country.
In the evening as they sat in the big sitting-room, smoking after-supper cigars, accompanied by Abner Daniel, with his long, cane-stemmed pipe, Mrs. Bishop came into the room, in her quiet way, smoothing her apron with her delicate hands.
“Pole Baker's rid up an' hitched at the front gate,” she said. “Did you send 'im to town fer anything, Alan?”
“No, mother,” replied her son. “I reckon he's come to get more meat. Is father out there?”
“I think he's some'r's about the stable,” said Mrs. Bishop.
Miller laughed. “I guess Pole isn't the best pay in the world, is he?”
“Father never weighs or keeps account of anything he gets,” said Alan. “They both make a guess at it, when cotton is sold. Father calls it 'lumping' the thing, and usually Pole gets the lump. But he's all right, and I wish we could do more for him. Father was really thinking about helping him in some substantial way when the crash came—”
“Thar!” broke in Daniel, with a gurgling laugh, “I've won my bet. I bet to myse'f jest now that ten minutes wouldn't pass 'fore Craig an' his bu'st-up would be mentioned.”