HE next morning at breakfast Alfred Bishop announced his intention of going to Atlanta to talk to Perkins, and incidentally to call on his brother William, who was a successful wholesale merchant in that city.
“I believe I would,” said Mrs. Bishop. “Maybe William will tell you what to do.”
“I'd see Perkins fust,” advised Abner Daniel. “Ef I felt shore Perkins had buncoed me I'd steer cleer o' William. I'd hate to heer 'im let out on that subject. He's made his pile by keepin' a sharp lookout.”
“I hain't had no reason to think I have been lied to,” said Bishop, doggedly, as he poured his coffee into his saucer and shook it about to cool. “A body could hear his death-knell rung every minute ef he'd jest listen to old women an'—”
“Old bachelors,” interpolated Abner. “I reckon they are alike. The longer a man lives without a woman the more he gits like one. I reckon that's beca'se the man 'at lives with one don't see nothin' wuth copyin' in 'er, an' vice-a-versy.”
Mrs. Bishop had never been an appreciative listener to her brother's philosophy. She ignored what he had just said and its accompanying smile, which was always Abner's subtle apology for such observations.
“Are you goin' to tell Adele about the railroad?” she asked.