CHAPTER XLIII.
NE morning, a week later, Pole Baker slouched down the street from the wagon-yard, and, peering into the law-office of Garner & Dwight, he stood undecided on the deserted street, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his baggy trousers. He took another surreptitious look. Garner was at his desk, his great brow wrinkled as with concentrated thought, his coarse hair awry, his coat off and shirt-sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his fingers stained with ink. Glancing up at this moment, he caught the farmer's eye and nodded: “Hello!” he said, cordially; “come in. How's our young colt running out your way?”
“Like a shot out of a straight-barrelled gun,” Baker retorted. “He's the most popular man in the county. He had a slow start, in all that nigger mess, but he's all right now.”
“So you think he'll be elected?” Garner said, as Pole sat down in a chair near his desk and began to twirl his long, gnarled fingers.
“Well, I didn't say that, exactly,” the farmer answered.