9097

ILLER accompanied Alan to the door. Old Trabue stood in front of his office in his shirt-sleeves, his battered silk hat on the back part of his head. He was fanning himself with a palm-leaf fan and freely using his handkerchief on his brow. He bowed cordially to Alan and came towards him.

"I want to ask you," he began, "as Pole Baker any way of raisin' money?"

"Not that I know of," laughed Alan. "I don't know whether he's got a clear title to the shirt on his back. He owes everybody out our way. My father is supplying him on time now."

"That was my impression," said Trabue. "He wanted me to defend 'im the other day, but he couldn't satisfy me about the fee, an' I let him go. He first said he could give me a lien on a mule, but he finally admitted that it wasn't his."

"He's not in trouble, is he?" exclaimed Alan, suddenly recalling Mrs. Baker's uneasiness.

Trabue looked at Miller, who stood leaning in the doorway, and laughed. "Well, I reckon he might call it that. That chap owned the town two days ago. He got blind, stavin' drunk, an' wanted to whip us from one end o' the place to the other. The marshals are afraid of 'im, for they know he 'll shoot at the drop of a hat, an' the butt of it was stickin' out o' his hippocket in plain sight. Was you thar, Rayburn? Well, it was better 'n a circus. Day before yesterday thar was a sort o' street temperance lecturer in front o' the Johnston House, speakin' on a dry-goods box. He had a lot o' gaudy pictures illustratin' the appearance of a drinkin' man' s stomach an' liver, compared to one in a healthy condition. He was a sort of a snide faker, out fer what he could git dropped in a hat, an' Pole was sober enough to git on to his game. Pole stood thar with the rest, jest about able to stand, an' that was all. Finally, when the feller got warmed up an' got to screechin', Pole begun to deny what he was sayin'. As fast as he'd make a statement Pole would flatly deny it. The feller on the box didn't know what a tough customer he had to handle or he'd 'a' gone slow. As it was, he p'inted a finger o' scorn at Pole an' helt 'im up fer a example. Pole wasn't sober by a long shot, but you'd 'a' thought he was, fer he was as steady as a post. He kept grinnin', as cool as a cucumber, an' sayin', 'Now you know yo' re a-lyin', stranger—jest a-lyin' to get a few dimes drapped in yore hat. You know nobody's stomach don't look like that durn chromo. You never seed inside of a drinkin' man, an' yo' re the biggest liar that ever walked the earth.' This made the crowd laugh at the little, dried-up feller, an' he got as mad as Old Nick. He begun to tell Pole his liver was swelled from too much whiskey, an' that he'd bet he was jest the sort to beat his wife. Most of us thought that ud make Pole jump on 'im, but he seemed to enjoy naggin' the feller too much to sp'ile it by a fight. A nigger boy had been carryin' round a bell and a sign advertisin' Webb's auction sale, an' stopped to see the fun. Pole heerd the tinkle of the bell, an' tuck it an' begun to ring it in the lecturer's face. The harder the feller spoke the harder Pole rung. It was the damnedest racket ever heerd on a public square. Part of the crowd—the good church folks—begun to say it was a disgrace to the town to allow a stranger to be treated that away, sence thar was no law agin public speakin' in the streets. They was in fer callin' a halt, but all the rest—the drinkin' men, an' I frankly state I was one—secretly hoped Pole would ring 'im down. When the pore devil finally won I felt like yellin' hooray, fer I glory in the pluck even of a dare-devil, if he's a North Georgian an' white. The lecturer had to stop without his collection, an' went off to the council chamber swearin' agin the town fer allowin' him to be treated that away. Thar wasn't anything fer the mayor to do but order Pole's arrest, but it took four men—two regulars and two deputized men—to accomplish it.

"The trial was the richest thing I ever attended. Pole had sobered up jest enough to be witty, an' he had no more respect fer Bill Barrett's court than he had fer the lecturer's platform. Him an' Barrett used to fish an' hunt together when they was boys, an' Pole kept callin' him Bill. It was Bill this an' Bill that; an' as Barrett had only been in office a month, he hardly knew how to rise to his proper dignity, especially when he saw the crowd was laughin' at his predicament. When I declined to defend 'im, Pole attempted to read the law on the case to Barrett an' show whar he was right. Barrett let 'im talk because he didn't know how to stop 'im, an' Pole made the best defence I ever heerd from a unlettered man. It kept the crowd in a roar. For a while I swear it looked like Pole was goin' to cleer hisse'f, but Barrett had to do his duty, an' so he fined Pole thirty dollars, or in default thereof to break rock on the streets fer ten days. You ort to 'a' heerd Pole snort. 'Looky heer, Bill!' he said, 'you know as well as yo're a-settin' cocked up thar, makin' folks say 'yore honor' ever' breath they draw, that I ain't a-goin' to break no rock in that br'ilin' sun fer ten day 'ca'se I beat that skunk at his own game!'

"You 'll have to do it if you don't pay out," Barrett told 'im.

"'Well, I jest won't pay out, an' I won't break rock nuther,' Pole said. 'You've heerd about the feller that could lead a hoss to water but couldn't make 'im drink, hain't you? Well, I'm the hoss.'

"Yesterday was Pole's fust day on the street. They put a ball an' chain to one of his ankles an' sent 'im out with the nigger gang, but all day yesterday an' to-day he hain't worked a lick. He's as stubborn as a mule. Thar's been a crowd around 'im all the time. You kin see 'im standin' up as straight as a post in the middle of the street from one end of it to the other. I'm sorter sorry fer 'im; he looks like he's ashamed at bottom, but don't want to give in. The funniest thing about the whole thing is that Pole seems to know more about the law than the mayor. He says unless they force him to work in the specified ten days they can't hold him any longer, an' that if they attempt to flog 'im he 'll kill the first man that lays hands on him. I think Bill Barrett likes him too well to have 'im whipped, an' the whole town is guyin' him, an' axin' 'im why he don't make Pole set in."

Alan went down the street to see Pole. He found him seated on a large stone, a long-handled rock-hammer at his feet. He looked up from under his broad-brimmed hat, and a crestfallen look came into his big, brown eyes.

"I'm sorry to see this, Pole," said Alan.

Pole stood up at his full height, the chain clanking as he rose. "They hain't treated me right about this matter, Alan Bishop," he said, half resentfully, half as if he recognized his own error. "Bill knows he hain't done the fair thing. I know I was full, but I jest wanted to have my fun. That don't justify him in puttin' me out heer with these niggers fer folks to gap' at, an' he knows it. He ain't a friend right. Me 'n' him has slep' together on the same pile o' leaves, an' I've let 'im pull down on a squirrel when I could 'a' knocket it from its perch; an' I've lent 'im my pointer an' gun many an' many a time. But he's showed what he is! He's got the wrong sow by the yeer, though, fer ef he keeps me heer till Christmas I 'll never crack a rock, unless I do it by accidentally step-pin' on it. Mark my words, Alan Bishop, thar 'll be trouble out o' this."

"Don't talk that way, Pole," said Alan. "You've broken the law and they had to punish you for it. If they hadn't they would have made themselves ridiculous. Why didn't you send me word you were in trouble, Pole?"

The fellow hung his head, and then he blurted out:

"Beca'se I knowed you would make a fool o' yorese'f an' try to pay me out. Damn it, Alan Bishop, this ain't no business o' yore'n!"

"I 'll make it my business," said Alan. "How much is your fine? You ought to have sent me word."

"Sent you hell, Alan Bishop," growled the prisoner. "When I send you word to he'p me out of a scrape that whiskey got me into I 'll do it after I've decently cut my throat. I say!—when you've plead with me like you have to quit the durn stuff!"

At this point of the conversation Jeff Dukes, a man of medium size, dressed in dark-blue uniform, with a nickel-plated badge shaped like a shield and bearing the words "Marshal No. 2," came directly towards them from a stone-cutter's shop near by.

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