“Well, I wouldn't kick about the price,” Pole said. “The only thing that—” Pole seemed to hesitate for a moment, then he went on. “I never like to act in a hurry in important business matters, an' I generally want to be sorter acquainted with a man I deal with. You see, ef I moved on that place it 'ud be to stay a long time, an' thar'd be things on yore side to do year after year. I generally ax fer references, but I'm a-goin' to be straight with you, Mr. Floyd; somehow, I feel all right about you. I like yore face. The truth is, you have a strong favor to a feller up our way. He's the richest young man we got, an' the finest ever God's sun shone on. An' as soon as I heard yore name was Floyd—the same as his is—somehow I felt like you an' him was kin, an' that I wouldn't lose by dealin' with you. Blood will tell, you know.”
“Why, who do you mean?” The old man stared in pleased surprise. “All the Floyds I know were broken up by the war. I must say none of them are really rich.”
“This Floyd is, you kin bet yore boots on that,” Pole said, enthusiastically. “He owns mighty nigh the whole o' our county; he's the biggest moneylender and investor in stocks and bonds I know of. He's fine all round: he'd fight a buzz-saw barehanded; he's got more friends than you kin shake a stick at; he could walk into Congress any election ef he'd jest pass the word out that he wanted the job.”
“Why, this is certainly news to me,” the old man said. “And you say he resembles me?”
“Got yore eyes to a T, an' long, slim hands like yore'n, an' the same shape o' the head an' neck! Why, shorely you've heard o' Nelson Floyd, junior member o' Mayhew & Floyd, of Springtown, the biggest dealers o' farm supplies in—”
“Oh, Nelson Floyd! Why—why, surely there must be some mistake. He hasn't made money, has he? Why, the only time I ever heard of him he was in destitute circumstances, and—”
“Destitute hell!—I beg yore pardon, Mr. Floyd, that slipped out. But that feller's not only not destitute, but he's the friend o' the destitute. What he does fer the pore an' sufferin' every year 'ud start many a man in life.”
A flush had crept into Floyd's face, and he leaned forward in warm eagerness. “The truth is, Mr. Baker, that Nelson Floyd is the only child of all the brother I ever had.”
“You don't say!” exclaimed Pole, holding the old man's eyes firmly, “which brother was that?”
“Charles Nelson—two years younger than I am. The truth is, he and I became estranged. He broke my mother's heart, Mr. Baker. He was very wild and dissipated, though he died bravely in battle. I would have looked after his son, but I lost sight of him and his mother after the war, and, then, I had my own troubles. There are circumstances, too, which I don't care to go over with a—a stranger. But I'm glad the young man has done well. The first I heard of him was about ten years ago. He was then said to be a sort of wild mountain outlaw. It was not natural for me to feel pride in him, or—”