“Well, he 'll have to be quicker about it than he was the last time,” said Pole, dryly. Some one laughed lustily from behind a tall stack of wheat in bags in the warehouse. It was Lawyer Trabue. He came round and picked up Fincher's daily paper, as he did every morning, and sat down and began to read it. “Now you are talkin',” he said. “Thar was more rest in that job, Pole, than any you ever undertook. They tell me you didn't crack a rock.” Fincher laughed as he closed his book and struck Baker with it playfully. “Pole was too tired to do that job,” he said. “He was born that way.” “Say, Mr. Trabue,” retaliated Pole, “did you ever heer how I got the best o' Mr. Fincher in a chicken trade?” “I don't think I ever did, Pole,” laughed the lawyer, expectantly. “How was it?” “Oh, come off, don't go over that again,” said Fincher, flushing. “It was this away,” said Pole, with a broad, wholesome grin. “My cousin, Bart Wilks, was runnin' the restaurant under the car-shed about two yeer ago. He was a new hand at the business, an' one day he had a awful rush. He got a telegram that a trainload o' passengers had missed connection at Chattanooga an' would have to eat with him. He was powerful rattled, runnin' round like a dog after its tail. He knowed he'd have to have a lot o' fryin' chickens, an' he couldn't leave the restaurant, so he axed me ef I'd take the money an' go out in town an' buy 'em fer 'im. I consented, an' struck Mr. Fincher, who was sellin' sech truck then. He 'lowed, you know, that I jest wanted one, or two at the outside, fer my own use, so when I seed a fine coop out in front an' axed the price of 'em he kinder drawed on his beerd till his mouth fell open, an' studied how he could make the most out o' me. After a while he said: 'Well, Pole, I 'll make 'em ten cents apiece ef I pick 'em, an' fifteen ef you pick 'em.' I sorter skeerd the chickens around an' seed thar was two or three tiny ones hidin' under the big ones, an' I seed what he was up to, but I was ready fer 'im. 'All right,' ses I, 'you pick 'em.' Thar was two or three loafers standin' round an' they all laughed at me when Mr. Fincher got down over the coop an' finally ketched one about the size of a robin an' hauled it out. 'Keep on a-pickin',' ses I, an' he made a grab fer one a little bigger an' handed it up to me. Then he stuck his hands down in his pockets, doin' his best to keep from laughin'. The gang yelled then, but I wasn't done. 'Keep on a-pickin',' ses I. An' he got down agin. An', sir, I got that coop at about four cents apiece less 'n he'd paid fer 'em. He tried to back, but the gang wouldn't let 'im. It was the cheapest lot o' chickens I ever seed. I turned the little ones out to fatten, an' made Wilks pay me the market-price all round fer the bunch.” “I 'll be bound you made some 'n' out of it,” said Trabue. “Fincher, did you ever heer how that scamp tuck in every merchant on this street about two yeer ago?”