“No, he'd be in for swearing out a peace-warrant. For all you do, Pole, don't let him onto it. I've got to write a letter or two before Wade comes; don't let the old man interrupt me.”
“I'll feel like I'm dancin' on yore scaffold,” the farmer growled. “I want my mind free to—to study. Thar! he's stopped to speak to Joe Peters. Say, Nelson, I see Mel Jones down thar talkin' to a squad in front o' the door; they've got the'r heads packed together as close as sardines. I see through it now. My Lord, I see through that.”
“What is it you see through, Pole?” Floyd looked up from Wade's note, his brow furrowed.
“Why, Mel's Jeff Wade's fust cousin; he's onto what's up, an' he's confidin' it to a few; it will be all over this town in five minutes, an' the women an' childem will hide out to keep from bein' hit. Thar they come in at the front now, an' they are around the old man like red ants over the body of a black one. He'll be onto it in a minute. Thar, see? What did I tell you? He's comin' this way. You can tell by the old duck's waddle that he is excited.” Floyd muttered something that escaped Pole's ears, and began writing. Mayhew came on rapidly, tapping his heavy cane on the floor, his eyes glued on the placid profile of his young partner.
“What's this I hear?” he panted. “Has Jeff Wade sent you word that he is comin' here to shoot you?”
Pole laughed out merrily, and, stepping forward, he slapped the old merchant familiarly on the arm. “It's a joke, Mr. Mayhew,” he said. “I put it up on Mel Jones as me'n him rid in town; he's always makin' fun o' women fer tattlin', an' said I to myse'f, said I, 'I'll see how deep that's rooted under yore hide, old chap,' an' so I made that up out o' whole cloth. I was jest tellin' Nelson, here, that I'd bet a hoss to a ginger-cake that Mel 'ud not be able to keep it, an' he hain't. Nelson, by George, the triflin' skunk let it out inside o' ten minutes, although he swore to me he'd keep his mouth shet. I'll make 'im set up the drinks on that.”
“Well, I don't like such jokes,” Mayhew fumed. “Jokes like that and what's at the bottom of them don't do a reputable house any good. And I don't want any more of them. Do you understand, sir?”
“Oh yes, I won't do it ag'in,” answered Pole, in an almost absent-minded tone. His eyes were now on Floyd, and, despite his assumed lightness of manner, the real condition of things was bearing heavily on him. Just then a rough-looking farmer, in a suit of home-made jeans, straw hat, and shoes worn through at the bottom, came back to them. He held in his hand the point of a plough, and looked nervously about him.
“Everybody's busy down in front,” he said, “an' I want to git a quarter's wuth o' coffee.” His glance, full of curiosity, was on Floyd's face. “I want to stay till Wade comes, myself, but my old woman's almost got a spasm. She says she seed, enough bloodshed an' carnage durin' the war to do her, an' then she always liked Mr. Floyd. She says she'd mighty nigh as soon see an own brother laid out as him. Mr. Floyd sorter done us a favor two year back when he stood fer us on our corn crop, an', as fer me, why, of course, I—”
“Look here, Bill Champ,” Pole burst out in a spontaneous laugh, “I thought you had more sense than to swallow a joke like that. Go tell yore old woman that I started that tale jest fer pure fun. Nelson here an' Wade is good friends.”