“Don't put the most likely word last,” said Abner, dryly.
“Well,” began Miller, as he sat down in the semicircle. “As it now stands, we've got a chance to gain our point. I have a signed agreement—and a good one—that your price will be paid if we can get the citizens through whose property the road passes to donate a right of way. That's the only thing that now stands between you and a cash sale.”
“They 'll do it, I think,” declared Alan, elatedly.
“I dunno about that,” said Abner. “It's owin' to whose land is to be donated. Thar's some skunks over in them mountains that wouldn't let the gates o' heaven swing over the'r property except to let themselves through.”
No one laughed at this remark save Abner himself. Mrs. Bishop was staring straight into the fire. Her husband leaned forward and twirled his stiff fingers slowly in front of him.
“Huh! So it depends on that,” he said. “Well, it does look like mighty nigh anybody ud ruther see a railroad run out thar than not, but I'm no judge.”
“Well, it is to be tested two weeks from now,” Miller said. And then he went into a detailed and amusing account of how he had brought Wilson to terms.
“Well, that beats the Dutch!” laughed Abner. “I'd ruther 'a' been thar 'an to a circus. You worked 'im to a queen's taste—as fine as split silk. You 'n' Pole Baker'd make a good team—you to look after the bon-tons an' him to rake in the scum o' mankind. I don't know but Pole could dress up an' look after both ends, once in a while, ef you wanted to take a rest.”
“I'm always sorry when I heer of it bein' necessary to resort to trickery,” ventured Mrs. Bishop, in her mild way. “It don't look exactly right to me.”
“I don't like it, nuther,” said Bishop. “Ef the land's wuth the money, an'—”