“Well,” the mountaineer smiled, “I may be away off in my calculations, and make nothin' by it, but I want to try my hand. Thar comes Colonel Price. I'll bet a new hat he'll come to yore offer before long. You jest keep a stiff upper lip, an' don't bring up the subject of yore own accord; he'll do the talkin'.” XIX WHEN he had finished his interview with Judge Spence in Atlanta the next day, Pole went to a drug-store and looked up the address of Henry A. Floyd in the city directory. The old bachelor lived on Peachtree Street, about half a mile from the Union Depot, in a rather antiquated story-and-a-half frame house, which must have been built before the Civil War. The once white paint on its outside had turned to a weather-beaten gray, and the old-fashioned blinds, originally bright green in color, had faded, and hung loosely on rusty hinges. There was a little lawn in front which stretched from the gateless iron fence to the low-floored veranda, but it held scarcely a tuft of grass, the ground being bare in some places and in others weed-grown. Pole went to the door and rang. He was kept waiting for several minutes before a middle-aged woman, evidently a servant of all work or house-keeper, appeared. “Is Mr. Floyd about?” Pole asked, politely, doffing his slouch hat. “He's back in the garden behind the house,” the woman said. “If you'll wait here I'll go call him.” “All right, ma'am,” Pole said. “I'll wait; I've got plenty o' time.” She went away, and he sat down on a rickety bench on the veranda, his hat still in his hands, his eyes on the passing carriages and street-cars. Presently the owner of the house appeared round the corner. He was tall, clerical looking, ashy as to complexion, slightly bald, had sunken cheeks over which grew thin, iron-gray side-whiskers, and a despondent stoop. “I'll have to git at that old skunk through his pocket,” Pole reflected, as his keen eyes took in every detail of the man's make-up. “He looks like he's bothered about some'n', an' a man like that's hard to git pinned down; an' ef I don't git 'im interested, he'll kick me out o' this yard. I'll be derned ef he don't favor Nelson a little about the head an' eyes.” “How are you, Mr. Floyd?” Pole stood up and extended his hand. “Baker's my name, sir; from up the country. I was on yore farm in Bartow not long ago, an' I sorter liked the lay o' the land. Bein' as I was down here on business, anyhow, I 'lowed I'd drap in an' ax ef you had any part o' that place you'd care to rent. I've jest got two hosses, but I want to put in about thirty acres.” A slight touch of life seemed to struggle into the wan face of the old man for a moment. “I've got just about that many acres unrented,” he said. “The rest is all let out. You'd have good neighbors, Mr.--” “Baker, sir--Pole Baker,” the caller put in. “And good fertile land, too, Mr. Baker. May I ask if you intend to rent on the part-crop plan or for cash?”