“He was wild about that time,” Pole said, as he stood up to go, “but he settled down and made a man of hisse'f. I'll let you know about that land, Mr. Floyd. Ef you don't hear from me by—this is Tuesday, ain't it?—ef you don't hear from me by Saturday, you may know that my wife has decided to stay on up the country.”
“But”—Floyd's face had fallen—“I hope nothing won't interfere with our deal, Baker. I'd like to have you on my place. I really would.”
“All right, we'll live in hopes,” said the mountaineer, “ef we die in despair,” and Pole went out into the sunlight.
“Now, Poley,” he chuckled, “who said you couldn't git all you was after? But lie! My Lord, I don't know when I'll ever git all that out o' my body. I feel like I am literally soaked in black falsehood, like a hide in a vat at a tanyard. It's leakin' out o' the pores o' my skin an' runnin' down into my socks. But that dried-up old skunk made me do it. Ef he hadn't a-been so 'feared o' pore kin, I wouldn't 'a' had to sink so low. Well, I've got news fer Nelson, an' that's what I was after.”
XX
IT was ten o'clock that night when the stage, or “hack,” as it was called, put Pole down in the square at Springtown. He went directly to Floyd's store, hoping to see the young man before he went to bed, but the long building was wrapped in darkness. Pole went over to the little hotel where Floyd roomed. The proprietor, Jerry Malone, and two tobacco drummers sat smoking on the veranda.
“He's jest this minute gone up to his room,” the landlord said, in response to Baker's inquiry as to the whereabouts of his friend. “It's the fust door to the right, at the top o' the steps.”
Pole went up and knocked on Floyd's door, and the young merchant called out, “Come in.”