"That's right," he said lowly, "We'll get him."
Joe spit and nodded.
"Damn bet! We'll set here all night, but we'll git him."
Spit. Silence. Voices from the shanty.
"Course with ordinary seedlin's a man wouldn't set out all night," he went on after a bit, "but these here's different—special select; somethin' me an' Foraker started long time ago an' me an' Helen's been keepin' up."
John watched him; Joe was talking without being urged, without much reserve, after those weeks of aloof scorn.
"Y'see," gesturing with his paper of tobacco, "I took these here seeds from trees that was naterally whoopin' er up, growin' like weeds. Me an' Foraker 'nd Helen, now, thinks mebby we c'n work trees like the gov'm't works wheat an' corn; git th' seed from the best stock; improve your—"
He stooped and leaned forward, rising slowly to a crouch, spitting on a palm as he grasped his axe; then sank back again with a quiet oath of disappointment.
"That sounds reasonable," said John and nodded.
Joe looked at him sharply, as though suspecting that Taylor was skeptical, but he saw the genuine regard for his idea in the younger man's face and looked away and sighed with satisfaction.
"I thought mebby you had a little sense," he said.
Taylor smiled and buttoned his coat.
"You can't do much in a short time, though, can you?" he asked.
"Twenty years, mebby; mebby more. Foraker used to say a lifetime." Shrug. Spit. "Me 'nd Helen 'nd him are th' only ones—besides the professors—who've got sense enough to git intrusted."
