Baker opened the door, finding the room in darkness. From the bed in the corner Floyd's voice came: “Is that you, Pole?”
“Yes, I jest got back, Nelson. I went to the store expectin' to find you at work, an' then Jerry told me you was up here.”
“Light the lamp, Pole,” Floyd said. “There are some matches on that table right under your hand.”
“Oh, I hain't got long to stay,” returned the mountaineer, “an' I don't need a light to talk by, any more'n a blind man does to write his letters. I 'lowed I'd tell you what I done down thar. I seed Floyd.”
“Oh, you did! After you left I got really interested in your venture, and I was afraid you might accidentally miss him.”
“Yes, I seed 'im.” Pole found a chair and sat down at the little table, resting his hand on it, and tilting the chair back, after his favorite method of making himself comfortable. There was a lamp on a post in front of the hotel and its light came through a window and faintly illuminated the room. Pole could see the white covering of Floyd's bed and the outline of the young man's head and shoulders against a big feather pillow.
“You say you saw him?” Floyd's voice was eager and restrained.
“Yes, an' I got news fer you, Nelson—substantial news. Henry A. Floyd is yore own uncle.”
“Good God, Pole!”—Floyd sat up in bed—“don't make any mistakes. You say he is actually—”
“I ain't makin' no mistakes,” replied Pole. “He's the only brother of yore daddy, Charles Nelson Floyd. That old cuss told me so, an' I know he was tellin' me a straight tale.”