Part 19 (1/2)

”Yes. And it will require all my strength and influence as a father, to get her to think as I want her to. Still, in our dealings with a woman there is always hope--if she thinks. I had quite a talk with her last night, but I did not convince her that she ought to go to that fellow and ask him to sign--sign that infamous pet.i.tion.” McElwin took his arms off the table and leaned back in his chair. ”And, sir, I don't believe she'll do it.”

”It can't be that she can care anything for him,” said Sawyer.

”Nonsense,” the banker replied. ”Such a thing has never entered her head. I think she enjoys the oddity of her position, married and yet not married. I think it tickles her sense of romance. But there is a way of getting at everything, and there must be some way of approaching this outrageous affair. I have looked into the law, and I find that in case the fellow should go and remain away one year, his signature would not be necessary. However, being a sort of a lawyer, he knows this as well as I do. We can't bring the charge of non-support, for we have not let him try. Zeb, she has intimated that you are afraid of him.”

The banker looked straight at him, but the mule-trader did not change countenance. ”No, I am not afraid of him,” he said, ”but unless I'm shoved pretty far, I don't care to mix up with him, I tell you that.

My life is too valuable to throw away, and they tell me that Lyman is nothing short of a desperado when he is stirred up, though you wouldn't think it to look at him. But you can never tell a man by looking at him, not half as much as you can a mule. Oh, if the worst comes, I'd kill him, but--”

”That would never do,” the banker broke in. ”Don't think of such a thing. I wonder if we couldn't buy him off,” he added, after a moment's musing. ”I should think that he might be induced to go away.

There is one thing in support of this; he has had a taste of success, or rather a nibble at ambition, and he may, even now, be thinking of going to a city. Suppose you go over and see him--offer him five hundred dollars.”

Sawyer studied awhile. ”He couldn't take offense at that,” he said.

”At least no sensible man ought to. Suppose you write me a check payable to him.”

McElwin, without replying, made out a check, blotted it and handed it to Sawyer. ”Come back and tell me,” he said.

Lyman was writing when Sawyer tapped at the open door. ”Come in,” said the writer. His manner was pleasant and his countenance was genial, and Sawyer, standing at the threshold, felt an encouragement coming to meet him. He stepped forward and Lyman invited him to sit down.

”A little warm,” said Lyman.

”Yes, think we'll have rain, soon; the air's so heavy.”

”Shouldn't be surprised. It would help farmers when setting out their tobacco plants.”

”I reckon you are right. But the farmers would complain anyway, wet or dry. The weather wouldn't suit them, even if they had the ordering of it.”

”Well, in that they are not different from the rest of us,” said Lyman. ”We all grumble.”

A short silence followed. Lyman moved some papers. Sawyer coughed slightly. They heard the grinding of the press.

”Printing the paper in there?” said Sawyer, nodding toward the door.

He began to turn about as if nervous at the thought of his errand.

”How many do you print a week?”

”I don't know, but we have a pretty fair circulation.”

”I see it a good deal out in the state.”

”Yes, it spreads out fairly well. We try to make it interesting to the farmers.”

”By telling them something they don't know,” said the visitor.

Lyman shook his head slowly: ”By reminding them of many things they do know,” he replied. ”Tell a man a truth he doesn't know and he may dispute it; call to his mind a truth which he has known and forgotten, and he regards it as a piece of wisdom. The farmer is the weather-c.o.c.k of human nature.”

”I guess you have about hit it. By the way, Mr. Lyman, I have called on a little matter of business, and I hope you'll not fly off before you consider it. The only way we can get at the merits of a case is by being cool and deliberate. The last time we had a talk, you--”

”Yes,” Lyman interrupted, ”I must have gone too far when I called you a coward.”