“I don't know which place o' his'n you mean,” said Pole when they were alone outside and Wilson had lighted his cigar. “That old scamp owns the whole o' creation out our way. Well, I 'll take that back, fer he don't own any land that hain't loaded down with trees, but he's got territory enough. Some thinks he's goin' to seceed from the United States an' elect himself President of his own country.” Wilson laughed, and then he said: “Have you got a few minutes to spare?” “I reckon I have,” said Pole, “ef you've got the mate to that cigar.” Wilson laughed again as he fished the desired article from his pocket and gave it and a match to Pole. Then he leaned against the heavy railing of the banisters. “I may as well tell you,” he said, “I'm a dealer in lumber myself, and I'd like to know what kind of timber you have out there.” Pole pulled at the cigar, thrust it well into the corner of his mouth with the fire end smoking very near his left eye, and looked thoughtful. “To tell you the truth, my friend,” he said, “I railly believe you'd be wastin' time to go over thar.” “Oh, you think so.” It was a vocal start on the part of Wilson. “Yes, sir; the truth is, old man Bishop has simply raked into his dern clutch ever' acre o' fine timber out that away. Now ef you went east, over t'other side o' the mountains, you mought pick out some good timber; but as I said, old man Bishop's got it all in a bag out our way. Saw-mill?” “No, I don't run a saw-mill,” said Wilson, with an avaricious sparkle in his eye. “I sometimes buy timbered lands for a speculation, that's all.” Pole laughed. “I didn't see how you could be a saw-mill man an' smoke cigars like this an' wear them clothes. I never knowed a saw-mill man to make any money.” “I suppose this Mr. Bishop is buying to sell again,” said Wilson, tentatively. “People generally have some such idea when they put money into such property.” Pole looked wise and thoughtful. “I don't know whether he is or not,” he said. “But my opinion is that he 'll hold on to it till he's in the ground. He evidently thinks a good time's a-comin'! Thar was a feller out thar t'other day with money to throw at cats; he's been tryin' to honeyfuggle the old man into a trade, but I don't think he made a deal with 'im.” “Where was the man from?” Wilson spoke uneasily. “I don't railly know, but he ain't a-goin' to give up. He told Neil Fulmore at his store that he was goin' home to see his company an' write the old man a proposition that ud fetch 'im ef thar was any trade in 'im.” Wilson pulled out his watch. “Do you happen to know where Mr. Rayburn Miller's law office is?” he asked. “Yes; it's right round the corner. I know whar all the _white_ men in this town do business, an' he's as white as they make 'em, an' as straight as a shingle.” “He's an acquaintance of mine,” said Wilson. “I thought I'd run in and see him before I leave.”