Thirty Days After Death

IS mother, gazing wanly at the red-faced mite whose advent had compelled a brief surcease from her hard duties, had named him Elias. But among the shrewd-eyed though slow-moving folk of the Shawangunk uplands, and especially among the hillmen inhabiting the cliff-girt bowl known as The Traps, it is one thing to name a youngster and another to make that prenomen [sic] endure. And long before the woman who bore Elias Skinner had gone the usual way of the mountain women and found her first real rest in the arms of death, she had heard that name slurred into another which clung like a burdock. For now, throughout his own rugged Traps country, and even out beyond—from Port to Paltz, in fact—her florid, fat son was known as Eely.

There was only one reason for the change. That reason was the man himself—a slippery creature whose appetite for meat and money was ever voracious, and whose ability for squirming out of trouble was remarkable. Gifted with an oily tongue and a smooth cunning carefully hidden under a jovial exterior, he could, and did, slip more than one hill farm out of the hands of its possessors and into his own tight grip. And when the former owners became displeased with the proceedings and thought of expressing disapproval by means of their ancient but still serviceable muzzle-loaders, somehow the protest was likely to hang fire or miss its mark altogether. Sometimes it even damaged the man behind the gun.

For instance, there was the little matter of Mandy Boggs and her son Tobe. For those parts, Tobe was a traveled youth. He had even been as far away as Poughkeepsie, where he had worked one whole winter in a factory, making a scandalous «mount of money, before the warm days of spring suddenly soured the taste of town life and sent him tramping back to his hills. So, having been out in the great world, he did the natural thing when the call of the Spanish War drifted in through the craggy jaws of The Traps—-he enlisted and went away to annihilate the dons. Then he was reported dead from fever.

Mandy was left very much alone. Since her man had inconsiderately fallen off a ledge some years previously, while attempting to carry home too large a cargo of liquid cheer, Tobe had been her sole reliance. Now, with the stubborn stoicism of her kind, she fought on single-handed to wring an existence from the rocky fields around her weatherbeaten home. She might have succeeded; but a sudden kick from a fly-tortured cow broke her kneecap and her courage at the same time.

Then came Eely. He, of course, had not felt impelled to go forth and fight the Spaniard. If them dagoes ever should come up the Hudson, by mighty, he'd make 'em wisht they never left Spain; but this idee of going away down into them tropical countries to fight alongside of them Cubyans was all foolishness. Of course, if young fellers like Tobe wanted to go they could; but Tobe would have done better to stay home and look out for his mom. Now that Tobe was dead in a swamp, Eely would see what he could do for poor old Mandy. He did for her by getting her to sell him the old homestead for a tenth of its value.

That is, he said she sold it. He had a paper to prove it. True, Mandy asserted that he had only made her a loan, and that she had signed a receipt. But the fact remained that her laboriously scrawled signature was attached to a writin' conveying the place and everything on it to Elias Skinner. When she recovered the use of her stiff leg she was requested to move out. After vain protests she went.

Homeless, penniless, aged and crippled, she found a bed and meager board in the house of a sharp-tongued female relative of her dead husband. There she was found by Tobe. That bronzed young veteran happened to be very far from dead. Indeed, he was alive, alert, active and fit; and, withal, the master of a brain-jarring straight left and a wicked right hook acquired during his training-camp days. The report of his death was merely another blunder by the War Department.

Very soon after his reunion with his mother Tobe betook himself to the abode of Eely. That prosperous-paunched financier was vastly astounded and somewhat perturbed by the apparition; for nobody had been so thoughtful as to inform him of the soldier's return. When one reflects that the young fool was supposed to be safely buried and his home was in Eely's hands and his mother unable to take any effective measures, one may perhaps understand the sudden sinking sensation caused by the impact on the Skinner soul of an eye cold as a bayonet and words pointed and hard as bullets. Eely, with his usual sagacity, felt that something unpleasant might come about. Nor was he mistaken.

Yet he had several wriggles at hand. By the time Tobe had finished telling him what was likely to take place he was ready with the first countermove. This was to call the youngster's attention to the fact that in the next room were two witnesses who had heard every threat uttered and could testify to them in court. In his smooth way he also recalled other matters which might prove embarrassing to the youth if brought to the notice of the authorities outside—such as past laxity in observing the game laws and the revenue acts.

To be sure, these little lapses had taken place years before, and in The Traps they were not regarded even as misdemeanors. Almost any citizen of that section—including Eely himself—might kill a little venison or distill a few jugs of stimulant whenever the spirit moved; and if there were folks willing to buy the meat or drink thus obtained—why, that was a private transaction which need not concern the lawmakers. But, at that moment, Eely felt that such goings-on were downright felonies, and in this virtuous frame of mind he did not at all understate their heinousness or the severity of the penalties attached thereto. His altruistic efforts, however, went for worse than naught.

Something hard and bony-knuckled, moving with terrific velocity, smote him full on the mouth. Something else, moving upward almost simultaneously, crashed under his left jowl. Immediately thereafter he floated away through a nebulous realm of shadows and silence, totally unaware of the facts that his body was reposing supine on the rough floor of his home and that his face was not quite what it used to be; oblivious, also, of the weight of Tobe on his midriff, where that young gentleman had seated himself preparatory to expeditious and efficient completion of the promised maulin'.

The thoroughgoing chastisement customary under such circumstances failed, however, to go forward in this instance. At the crash of Eely's downfall and the resultant shudder of the entire house the two listeners in the next room had sprung from their chairs. And now, just as the avenger was about to loose his first downward swing, his blow was halted by imperative voices.

“You leave my cousin be!”

“Git offen him, Tobe!”

Tobe, uplifted arm rigid, stared. Through the doorway had darted a blue-ginghamed, blue-eyed girl who now confronted him in righteous wrath, and whom he never before had seen. Behind her lumbered a lean, craggy-faced old man whose bushy white hair and walrus mustache bristled with command—Abe Billings, owner of half the countryside, known and respected by all. Somewhat of an autocrat, was old Abe; and now he barked out his orders as if to a son.

“Git offen him, I tell ye! Gorry mighty, ain't ye got no sense? Ye'll be a-killin' him if ye maul him now; he looks 'most dead already. An' then ye'll git hung. Leave him be! Git up onto yer feet!”

From force of training the youth started to comply; for he had been a good soldier, and the habit of obedience to sharp commands still was strong. Before he could recall himself and resume his straddle squat on the rotund stomach, both seized him and dragged him off.

“Ye big bully!” rebuked the girl, cheeks aflame. “Git outen here an' stay out! Ain't ye 'shamed o' yourself, hittin' a sick man?”

For a moment Tobe said nothing. He stood looking her straight in the face. Mingling with the rage in his own bronzed countenance grew a touch of admiration: for she was very good to look upon. Then his glance darted again to the somnolent form on the floor.

“Sick? Him?” he jeered.

“Yes, him! He's got spells with his heart—he's li'ble to die 'most any time.”

“Spells with his stummick, ye mean,” contradicted Tobe. “He ain't got no heart. All that ails him is, he gobbles too much.” A diagnosis which, incidentally, was quite accurate, for Eely's only ailment was indigestion. 'An' he's a-goin' to git a darn sight sicker, 'less'n he coughs up my mom's farm.”

Old Abe's frosty eyes twinkled.

“Hum! Wal, s'posin' we wake up Eely,” he proposed, “an' then git to the bottom o' that farm business. I'm kind o' curious 'bout that, my own self. Mercy, gal, jest dump some water onto him an' bring him round.”

The girl vanished into the kitchen. Tobe demanded, sotto voce: “Who's she?”

“Mercy Davis. Kind of a second cousin to Eely. Her folks is dead, an' she come here to keep house for him. Comes from over Long Pond way. Awful nice gal.”

Mercy, returning with a dipper of water and a towel, sank beside her sole surviving relative and laved his damaged face. Abe, snorting at such gentle measures, clumped out and brought back a whole pailful, which he forthwith dumped.

Eely gasped, snorted, and sat up. Thereupon Tobe informed him, in no mild voice, that unless he immediately produced for inspection the papers in the Boggs transaction he would suffer exceedingly. And after a few more squirms the still dazed financier wabbled to an ancient walnut box and extracted the document bearing Mandy's signature. This he handed to Abe.

“There 'tis,”” he wheezed. “A straight-out an' honest deed, an' ye can't git behind it. An' if there's a law into the land I'll”

“I'm a-makin' my own laws today,” cut in Tobe. “Shut up! What's it say, Abe?”

Abe felt for his specs, and found them not; squinted hard, knotted his brow, and pored over the words blurring before his eyes.

“Pears like it's all right,” he cautiously judged, at length. “I can't see it all plain, but as near's I can make out”

At that juncture one of Tobe's hands shot out and snatched the paper. Eely emitted a squall and started forward; then, plumbing the hard grin on the young veteran's face and glimpsing the fist hanging low and ready, backed off. His vociferations were cut short by another adjuration to shut up. Whereafter Tobe added: “I'll jest take this home, an' me an' mom'll read it together. If it says what ye told her it did, Eely, I'll fetch it back. If it don't I'll burn it up, an' we'll move right back onto our place. An' then, soon as I can git to it, I'll pay ye jest exackly what ye lent mom, without no int'rest. An' that'll have to do ye.”

One more hard glare, and he stalked out. Thereafter Eely sat him down and spoke many harsh words, to which Abe listened with twitching lips. Presently Abe, too, betook himself homeward, chuckling as he went. And Mercy—who did not yet know her kinsman very well condoled with him and shared his virtuous indignation against the Boggses.

The paper never came back. The Boggses resumed living on their stony little homestead. Eely writhed mentally, squealed vocally, but took no action legally or physically. Court proceedings were out of the question, since he could produce no proof that he had ever owned the Boggs place; the signing of the deed had never been witnessed, the paper had now disappeared, and Abe's defective vision precluded his taking oath to the wording of the document. As for physical retaliation—Eely's knees weakened at the mere thought of it, and he knew they would collapse under him if he should attempt to outface the Tobe Boggs eye and the Tobe Boggs fists. Thus he was left literally without a leg to stand on.

Worse yet, his egotism—founded on his reputation for sharp trading—suffered a jolt.

Mandy Boggs talked; the tale of Eely's humbling spread all about The Traps; and for many a day hilarious hillmen greeted him with “Hi, Eely! Lendin' any money on farms today?”

To which, his jovial mask cracking for the nonce, he replied darkly, “Jest you wait an' see!”

They waited, and presently they saw.

Two strangers appeared—cold-eyed, hard-lipped men, who, working with a speed and precision indicating exact foreknowledge, caught and arrested young Tobe in a little cave where he was minding his own business. Before The Traps was fully aware of their arrival they had departed, taking with them Tobe, and leaving behind them a smashed still. Whether the youth had actually been engaged in the manufacture of moonshine, or whether, as he asserted, he had merely been fooling around the illegal apparatus, never was conclusively established; but the outcome was virtually the same. Although a patriotic court, taking into account his youth and his excellent army record, gave him the benefit of the doubt and acquitted him, he had been held so long for trial that he might almost as well have served a prison sentence. And, although Eely volubly denied having been instrumental in causing the arrival of the revenue officers, it was noticeable that he recovered his aplomb and that the hill folk ceased twitting him. For a time, indeed, they exhibited marked distaste for his company; and for a longer period they spoke shortly and warily in his presence.

Thus it was once more made manifest that trying to outsmart Eely was a hazardous experiment. Even Tobe, though vengefully bitter, refrained from further violence on his return—although it must be admitted that this forbearance was due neither to caution nor to magnanimity, but to the exhortations of his mother not to git into no more trouble; also, perhaps, to the fact that the face of Mercy Davis had been much in his mind during the endless weeks of incarceration.

After pungently and fluently expressing his opinion of the gentleman presumably responsible for his unpremeditated excursion he went to work at the first job available, with the double object of easing things for his mother and repaying his enemy's, loan. The Boggs pride was too stiff to take advantage of the fact that the debt could be utterly repudiated. The Boggses had always paid up what they owed.

In the meantime gentle Mercy had experienced a couple of changes of heart. Daily contact with her cousin, as well as sundry irrefutable reports which she had heard regarding his sharp practices, had caused him to sink appreciably in her estimation. Conversely, her reflections on the Boggs incident and her later observations of the straight-hitting young soldier himself—who, with eyes front, passed her home twice daily in going to and returning from work—tended to cause a decided revision of her first opinion of him. At length it came about that, in the most innocent way imaginable, she chanced now and then to be picking berries beside the road when he passed by; and, still later, that she became terribly frightened by a snake just as he approached. In view of the fact that he was unable to find that snake, possibly the existence of the reptile was a slight illusion on her part. However that may be, the fact remains that the stony silence which he had hitherto maintained was at an end, and that thereafter they spoke when they met, and that the meetings were not too infrequent. And, as all the world knows, when a youth and a maid continue to meet accidentally on purpose—well, eventualities may eventuate.

If these semiclandestine occurrences Eely remained long ignorant. They came about at some distance from his domicile and usually at times when he was away somewhere. Now that his self-esteem was restored, he was, as of yore, on the watch for opportunities to outsmart folks. Too, it was about this time that he conceived one of the smartest tricks of his career. In planning the consummation of that deal he gave no thought to the movements of his uncomplaining, unpaid little housekeeper.

His scheme had its genesis in the rankling recollection of Abraham Billings' inability to read all the Boggs title deed without his spectacles. Time and again he had wrathfully told himself—and told Mercy too—that the old fellow had been just shamming, playing safe; he hadn't used Eely right; he had been on Tobe's side; probably he had given Tobe the wink to grab that paper; and so on. Yet, for all his mouthings, he ultimately became convinced that the failure of the aged eyes to make out all the words had not been feigned. Eely's scrawl was none too easy to read, even with perfect vision. So

It was at this point, in his twentieth rehearsal of his wrongs, that the idea took root. It grew apace. In the possibility of its fruition he foresaw not only revenge but the acquisition of a worthwhile trophy. To outsmart Abe—glory! That would be catching a big fish—the biggest in the region. Abe, though as straightforward as Eely was serpentine, bore such a reputation for shrewdness that for many a year none had cared to attempt outguessing him. But now

“Jest you wait an' see!” gloated the schemer, speaking very softly, and glancing about to make sure that none heard or saw him. Thereafter he took paper and pencil, and craftily he scrawled and rescrawled a certain sentence, taking great pains with one particular word. When at length the whole suited him, he exchanged the pencil for pen and ink.

Again he practiced that same sentence, conquering an inclination to hesitate at that one word. Finally, chortling in glee, he gathered up all the letter paper, dropped it into the stove, and burned it to the ultimate ash. Then he went forth to call on Abe.

For the first fifty yards or so he moved with purposeful speed. But then, nearing the little yellow house wherein the childless widower lived alone, he paused, squinting calculatingly at the end of his nose; scratched his head all around; and muttered sagely, “Can't fry no fish till ye ketch 'em. Can't ketch an ol' he one 'thout baitin' him a mite. Take yer time, 'Lias, an' move kind of easy like.”

A ponderous nod and a cunning glint of the eye. He resumed his way at a more moderate gait. Arriving, he sat down and talked genially for an hour or more with his prospective victim. Then said he, “Abe, I got to have a little money from somewhere. 'Bout twenty dollars. I could drive down to Paltz an' git it, but that's a long ways. I know ye've allus got some money layin' round, Abe—ye're the richest man into The Traps—an' if ye ain't usin' twenty dollars for about a week, I'll pay ye int'rest onto it. Jest bout a week, Abe. Whatsay?”

The old man cleared his throat and fixed him with a frosty eye.

“Hrrrup! I say two-three things 'bout that, Eely. Fust place, this is Sunday, an' business onto Sunday ain't legal. Second place, I wouldn't lend ye two cents, 'less'n ye give me yer note. Third”

“Why, o' course I'll give ye a note, Abe! That's business. Gorry mighty, ye didn't think I wanted ye to take my say-so, did ye? Ye're too shrewd for that, I know. I'll make out yer note, sure pop. I guess ye know I'm good for twenty dollars, don't ye?”

“I know ye be—if ye can't squeal outen it some way,” was the tart rejoinder. “An' ye'll have to squeal bloody murder to beat a note. If ye don't pay up I'll give it to Jedge Watts, down to Port, an' let him git it outen ye. Ye'll pay then, an' costs, too. Oh, I know ye, Eely, don't make no mistake 'bout that.”

“Haw, haw! Right ye are, Abe! I'm a business man, an' so are you. Wal, now; s'posin' I come up tomorrer mornin' an' give ye yer note, can I have the money right off?”

“I guess so. I'll look at the note fust.”

With utmost goodfellowship, Eely departed. Down the road he grinned widely and winked at a blackberry bush. At home he scrawled out a note, perused it carefully, folded and pocketed it.

Bright and early Monday he was again at Abe's home.

Spectacles astride his nose, the old man cautiously read the promise to pay; verified date, amount and signature; turned it over to make sure that the other side was blank; then handed it back.

“It's writ in pencil,” he objected, “'an' I didn't see ye write it. Do it all over ag'in in ink while I watch ye.”

Without protest Eely obeyed. After once more perusing the document Abe nodded, laid it in a drawer, and produced twenty dollars. Both counted it.

“Kee-rect. Much 'bliged,” acknowledged Eely.

“An' I want it back Monday mornin',” reminded the other.

“'Less'n I die, ye'll have it. If I do die ye can collect from my estate.”

“I will,” the oldster promised, grimly.

The loaned bills journeyed to Eely's house and remained there a week, unused. On the due date, another twenty dollars went back to the lender.

“Right onto time, Abe, like I promised,” proclaimed the borrower. “Twenty dolars, an' three cents int'rest. An' here's a good see-gar besides. An' I'm much 'bliged.”

After counting the bills, looking at the pennies and smelling the cigar, the old man nodded. The note was restored to its maker. They sat, smoked and talked. When Eely was gone Abe once more counted the bank notes, then thinly smiled.

“Most men's honest—when they've got to be,” he remarked to his tall clock. “Even Eely dasn't try to beat his note.”

Down the road Eely once more winked at the berry bush.

For the next two weeks he practiced daily at scribbling that one sentence which seemed ever in his mind. Meanwhile he saw Abe at various times, talking of everything except money. Then he reappeared at the yellow house in haste.

“By gorry, Abe, I got to borry some money ag'in,” he rattled out. “Hate to do it, too; I'll have to pay ye more int' rest this time. I got to have a hundred dollars right off, for thutty days. I'm swappin' some land down Clove way, an' I got to give the feller a hundred dollars to boot. If I don't put it over quick it's a goner. Le's have a pen, will ye, an'”

“Hol' on!” expostulated Abe. “Think I'm a bank? Hundred dollars! Ye're crazy. I ain't got no hundred dollars into this house, now or no other time. Give the feller yer note or sumpthin'.”

“Gorry mighty. I can't, Abe; he won't take notes. He's a dago feller an' he wants cash, an' he wants it quick. What'll I do? I—I'll give ye double int'rest, Abe; I got to have that money right now! Twelve per cent, Abe. Thutty days.”

“'Tain't legal. An' I ain't got it, I tell ye. I ain't got more'n—wal, 'bout sixty dollars, mebbe. I got more into bank, o' course, but that's a long ways down into the valley.”

“Gimme the sixty! Mebbe that'll hold him till I can git the rest. I'll give ye twelve per cent jest the same—fifteen if I got to. Gimme a pen!”

Abe wavered. Eely besought, exhorted, stamped about. At last the oldster gave in.

“I'll lend it to ye jest to git shet o' yer noise!” he rasped. “An' seein' ye're crazy 'nough to pay fifteen per cent, fifteen ye'll pay! 'Twon't hurt ye to git squeezed a mite after all ye've done to other folks. Here's paper an' pen. Now where's my specs got to!”

He searched high and low. The faithful glasses were not to be found. Eely, while ranting about, had abstracted them from the table where they lay, and they now were in his coat pocket.

“Ne' mind yer specs! Ye can see me write without 'em. Watch me make out the note. Gorry, I got to git down there right off or the deal's busted! Now le's see—what's the day! Sixth, ain't it! Now—thutty days”

He scratched off the note. Abe, though perturbed by his loss, nevertheless watched keenly, his lips forming words as the pen stuttered over the sheet.

“'Thirty days after date I promise to pay Abraham Billings sixty'”

“Hol' on!” he interjected. “Don't ye put down sixty dollars at fifteen per cent interest. Write it 'sixty dollars an' seventy-five cents,' an' no int'rest.”

“Any way ye say, Abe. Gorry, I bet that dago'll skunk outen it. I got to hustle. There ye be! All made out an' signed. Where's the money!”

Before replying Abraham conned the paper again, his brow corrugated from the visual strain. Then, nodding dubiously: “Ye write an awful hand, Eely. That 'date' looks more like 'cleaver,' or sumpthin'. Cuss it, what did I do with them specs? But—wal, I'll git yer money.”

He did, after extracting bills from three separate hiding ater Eely, wriggling with impatience, almost snatched the greenbacks from the extended hand.

“Much 'bliged!” he chuckled. “I won't forgit this, Abe; an' neither will you! G'-by.”

He bolted. The other, struck by something sinister in that parting promise, stared after him in momentary misgiving; then resumed the worried hunt for his glasses. It was not until suppertime that he found them—and then by sitting on them and breaking them to bits. While his back was turned Eely had softly laid them in his regular dining chair, concealed by the dangling red tablecloth.

Since it is no easy matter for an aged hillman to replace broken spectacles, the old man perforce did without them until such time as he should descend into the lowlands. And, having no other impelling reason to make such a trip, he did not go until after the sixty-dollar note came due. Then he went, with fire in his eyes—to see a lawyer. And this was why:

Thirty days after date, Eely failed to appear. He had been vastly good-humored of late—for exactly thirty days, in fact—and much given to snickering over some unspoken thought; but he had evaded all reference to the loan or to the dago deal. Now he made no move whatever to meet his note. Therefore his creditor made a purposeful move to meet the defaulter. With face set in resolute lines he lumbered into Eely's front yard. There he beheld a rare spectacle—the tight-fisted money-maker playing host.

Half a dozen young louts, and a couple of older ones, were sitting about the porch, smoking Eely's tobacco and sampling Eely's liquid refreshment. They were in somewhat hilarious mood. The host himself was in high spirits.

“Wal, if here ain't Abe!” he gurgled. “Good ol' Abe, the smartest ol' feller into the mount'ins! Takes a putty sharp feller to outsmart Abe, I tell ye! Set down, Abe, ol' hoss, an' take a load offen yer feet.”

“I'll take a load offen yer pocket, if ye don't mind,” was the sarcastic retort. “Today's the sixth.”

“So 'tis, Abe, so 'tis. An' tomorrer'll be the seventh if it don't rain. Haw, haw! An' what of it!”

“What of it!” Abe glowered. The company was not to his liking; the chaffing even less so. “Be ye losin' yer mind or sumpthin'? What 'bout yer note?”

“Note?” Eely scratched his head in exaggerated puzzlement. “Note? Oh, now I rec'lect. Why, now, Abe, ain't ye in a kind of a hurry? That note'll be paid when it's due, o' course. What's yer rush?”

“It's due now! I'm a-waitin'.”

“Guess ye'll have to wait awhile longer, Abe.” Eely snickered. The others, with empty grins, watched him. “When'd ye think that note was due, Mr. Billin's?”

“'Thutty days after date I promise to pay '” quoted the lender.

“Whoa! After what? After date? By gorry, now, think o' that! Abe, d'ye s'pose ye made a mistake! Better put on yer specs an' read that note right out loud, kind o' keerful.”

“My specs is broke. But I can read”

“Ye need specs, Abe, sure. Try mine. Ye suttinly need specs, Abe!”

Eely chortled outright. Abe, with an angry grunt, seized the proffered glasses and flipped open the note. Then his jaw dropped. Staring, he stood like a white-whiskered image, gaze fixed on the deceptive scrawl which the trickster had practiced so assiduously for two weeks.

“Come on, fellers, le's help Abe read that 'ere note!” prompted the writer, grinning triumphantly. And while the old fellow stood frozen, the whole company grouped beside and behind him, avidly scanning the momentous lines. Then the ledges a quarter mile away reverberated with howls of saturnine laughter.


 * “Thirty days after death {so ran the words] I promise to pay Abraham Billings sixty dollars and seventy-five cents.

.”

When old Abe crumpled up the paper and slowly drew off the Skinner specs he said not a word. No word was needed. The whole trap lay plain before his mind; the unwonted hospitality of Eely, too, was explained. The visitors themselves, hitherto mystified as to the object of their invitation, likewise understood. They were witnesses to the outsmarting of the shrewdest old-timer of the hills, purveyors of a joke which would make the stony Traps rumble with mirth. “Thirty days after death”—haw, haw, haw!

“Guess ye was a leetle hasty-like, wasn't ye, Abe?” twitted Eely. “That note ain't due for a long time yit—I'm li'ble to live a good many years; an' o' course ye don't expect no pay before it comes due. Ye know, Abe, I wouldn't take advantage o' nobody—I'm jest a pore, honest young feller a-tryin' to git along—but business is business, an' a feller's got to be shrewd.”

Whap! His own spectacles, thrown with the utmost force of the old man's sinewy right arm, struck and splintered on the smirking tormentor's forehead. His taunting speech died in an alarmed grunt, and he staggered back, mopping blood from half a dozen smarting glass cuts. Abe, face working, turned and stalked out of the yard. And so baleful was his parting glare that not another laugh sounded until he was out of earshot.

So Abraham drove down to Port, where a sympathetic but amused justice of the peace held a straight face, smiled inwardly, and gave the belligerent old fellow scant hope of redress. And meanwhile the story spread rapidly along the winding roads and paths of The Traps, and men laughed loud over the cuteness of Eely's latest stratagem. Even before Abe's return some guffawing youth had dubbed him Ol' Thutty Days And, though none ever used this nickname in the old man's presence, behind his back people snickered over it for many a day.

The two who found no humor whatever in the incident were Tobe, who whole-heartedly hated the slippery schemer, and Mercy, who was quite fond of the aged victim. Tobe's remarks, on learning of the affair, were heated; and Mercy's reaction to the news was an angry disgust toward her relative and all his ways. With a sharpness unusual in her she told her guardian that he ought to be ashamed of himself, and that she was thankful that her relationship to him was distant. Furthermore, she forthwith baked a delicious berry pie, carried it to Abe, and expressed her candid opinion regarding the matter. Thereafter she formed the habit of making little dainties for the old man—a practice of which Eely pointedly disapproved, since he felt himself capable of eating all tidbits prepared in his home, but which he found himself powerless to stop. The girl, he had learned, had a spirit of her own; and he dared not be too tyrannical, lest he suddenly find himself minus an excellent cook. So, despite opposition, Mercy continued to visit the Billings house. And thus, presently, between the crusty old-timer and the gentle newcomer grew up a sincere affection.

This was one outcome of his smartness which, for a time, took some of the relish from Eely's enjoyment. Another was the natural corollary that Tobe, too, took to visiting old Abraham and boldly seein' the gal home. The discovery of the attachment between his housekeeper and the Boggs brute caused a distinctly sour taste to the Skinner tongue; and, although careful of his speech when in the presence of the hard-fisted brute aforesaid, he was not so reticent when Mercy was alone with him. Again, however, he dared not go too far. Then it occurred to him that the regard of both these men for his fair young kinswoman might ultimately redound to his own advantage. Wherefore he tacitly acquiesced in the established order of things and tried to figure some way to profit from it.

It was not long afterward when, by an unexpected turn of affairs, he suddenly perceived wondrous possibilities.

First, there befell! to Abraham Billings an amazing stroke of luck. Into that labyrinth of stark cliffs and tangled forests, little upland lakes and silvery waterfalls, came a party of quiet-spoken men who clambered about the rugged region for a fortnight. They saw all and said extremely little; but that little disclosed that they were projecting the erection of a great summer hotel. Presently, after conferences, they decided to buy. The section they desired was not the string of stony, ugly farmsteads along the creek, which the Trapsmen considered the only places of value, but the wild jumble of cliffs and timber above. And the up-and-down acres which they most desired all were owned by Abe. When the old man sold his wilderness holdings—as, after shrewd dickering, he did—he received a preposterous price. In awed tones his fellow hillmen told one another that the sum involved was more'n twenty thousan' dollars!

It seemed almost incredible. Abe himself maintained a tight mouth—albeit a thinly smiling one—and the scoffers asseverated that it warn't possible. Had anyone told them that Abe's ol' bunch o' rocks would, within a decade, be worth a tenth of a million dollars, he would have been hooted from the hills. Yet that was exactly what was to come about.

Meanwhile Eely, endeavoring with nagging pertinacity to sell these crazy capitalists his farm holdings, made not a nickel. His arguments earned him, first, cold glances and curt replies; last, an enforced exit closely resembling what city men call the bum's rush, coupled with an ominous order not to return. Since the rusher was a large, rude attendant wearing heavy boots, the rushee heeded his words. At a safe distance he expressed his feelings by shaking one fat fist at the burly bodyguard. That coarse person replied by placing a thumb against his nose. These amenities concluded Mr. Skinner's contact with the party of lunatics.

He had hardly reached home, however, before his brain was busy with other ways and means. There was Abe—good old Abe—fine old feller—with a good twenty thousand. And he'd had quite a jag of money in the hank before that deal. And he still had a tidy little farm besides. He was gitting pretty old. He had no heirs, except some distant relations who never came to see him. And he liked Mercy awful well. Old men had married young gals before now, and then died and left them mighty well off. And then—Eely wouldn't mind marrying a handsome young widder with a lot of money! But still, Mercy was a funny gal, with funny notions, and kind of set into her ways; probably she wouldn't have sense enough to marry for money, and would git mad if coaxed to do so. And that Tobe Hoggs hanging around drat him! No, Mercy couldn't be depended on.

But there was more than one way to skin a cat. Let's see, now.

He wrestled with the problem most of the night. The next day he arose with a determined set to his mouth. He was going to gamble! it was risky—he might lose. But a feller had to take chances sometimes. And the odds were big: Sixty and three-fourths dollars against more than twenty thousand.

His first play, however, was a queer one for a gambler. At the breakfast table he displayed a sober thoughtfulness decidedly at variance from his usual greedy preoccupation; paused at times to stare at nothing; and—by a heroic effort—succeeded in leaving half his meal uneaten. Having thus riveted Mercy's wondering attention, he walked about, head bent; halted at length beside the little stand where lay her Bible; opened the book, and read silently. Finally he straightened up and spoke like a man actuated by high resolve.

“Mercy, I wisht ye'd do a good deed. Take some money to ol' Abe an' tell him I'm sorry.”

“Wha-what? Be ye sick?” marveled the girl.

“Sick into my mind, gal. I had an awful dream las' night. 'Twas 'bout ol' Abe, an'—an' I want to make up for that joke I played onto him. 'Twarn't nothin' but a joke—I allus meant to pay him up—but I let it go too fur. I want ye to take his money to him right now. I dasn't go myself—he wouldn't give me no chance to explain—ye know how he is, awful set into his ways. But he'll listen to you. An' I'll feel better into my mind when I'm square with him. Ye know, he's pretty ol', an' he might die any time—livin' alone like he does.”

“That's so,” assented the girl. “He'd ought to have somebody to kind o' look out for him. I'll go, right now.”

And, with the sixty dollars and interest in hand, she went, looking back at her cousin with a new respect.

Eely promptly ate his fill, patted his paunch and chuckled.

When he spied her returning he became absorbed in the Bible—though not too much so to ask quickly, as she entered, “How is he? An' what's he say?”

“Why, he's feelin' fine, thank goodness. An' he says miracles are happenin' fast lately, but he's thankful for all the Lord sends, an'—an' he'd jest as soon take what the devil owes him too, That's jest what he said. What was it that ye drempt 'bout him, 'Lias?”

“Oh, 'twas awful, gal! He was sick—a-dyin'—a-wallerin' round onto his floor, tryin' to git help, an' nobody nigh him. An' I couldn't git to him, some way. An' somethin' kep' a-tellin' me he'd had a stroke 'cause I done him outen sixty dollars, an' Oh, nev' mind! I feel a lot better now. Same time, he hadn't ought to live alone so, at his age. Ye never know what might happen.”

Mercy nodded, with a look of concern. But she said only, “I'm awful glad ye've seen the light an' done right, an' I hope ye'll keep on so.”

“I'm aimin' to!” was his fervent declaration. The sly grin which slid across his face as he turned away, however, did not bear testimony to his conversion.

Having thus paved the way for renewal of friendly relations, he lost no more time than seemed necessary in playing the next cards. With becoming humility and every evidence of contrition, he visited the old man and confessed shame for his joke. Abraham, though a bit short at first, could well afford to be magnanimous, and—outwardly, at least—accepted the apology at its face value. Naturally enough, the penitent then proceeded to narrate his imaginary dream, dwelling on the horror of the lonely old man's helplessness in his hour of need. The stout-hearted veteran snorted; yet, realizing the possibility of this vision becoming stark truth, grew somewhat thoughtful.

“'Tain't right, Abe, ol' friend, for ye to be alone at your time o' life,” earnestly declared Eely. “Them relations o' yourn, now—I know they never done nothin' for ye, but Hadn't ye oughter have 'em come an'”

He paused. Abe reacted as he had hoped.

“Hrrrup! Them? Huh! I wouldn't have 'em into my house! Wuthless, shif'less, no-'count, backbitin' younkers, 'thout no respec' for their elders.” He waved his pipe in a gesture of utter contempt.

“Wal, o' course, mebbe that's right,” conceded Eely, with secret delight. “I dunno 'em, myself, but if they'd a-been any good they'd of looked ye up 'fore now. Ye're wise not to have sech folks round ye. Wal, now, I wisht ye lived nearer to us, so's we could look out for ye better.” Catching a suspicious in the gray eyes he adroitly added, “Me an' Mercy, we been right worried 'bout ye, many's the time. Mercy, she thinks awful well o' ye, Abe, an'—an'—wal”

He left the rest unsaid, noting the softening of the seamy visage at sound of the girl's name. There was a silence.

“Awful nice gal,”” mused Abraham, after a time. “Wisht I had a darter like her. But”—dryly—“seein' I ain't, or no other relation wuth havin', I guess I'll jest have to go 'long like I be.”

“Uh-huh.” Eely soberly nodded. Then, as if struck by a sudden new thought: “By mighty! Why, say, Abe, why don't ye come an' live 'long of us? We'd be awful glad to have ye. Honest! Mercy'd be tickled to death, an' so'd I. We've got room 'nough. By gorry, Abe, that'd be fine! I—I couldn't let Mercy come up here an' keep house for ye—I'm her guardeen, an' I need her; an'—folks 'd talk 'bout her, too; ye know how folks be. But I'd be awful proud to have ye come an' ”

“An' leave ye all my money when I die,” caustically interrupted the other.

Eely arose, red-faced, as if insulted. Actually he was angered by the swift plumbing of his motive. His assumption of injured pride, however, was excellent.

“I guess I better go 'long,” he rumbled. “I didn't mean nothin' like that. But ye're like all the rest of 'em—give a dawg a bad name an' hang him! I was tryin' to do right by ye, but G'-by!”

He clumped out, fuming. Abe watched him out of sight down the road, then frowned meditatively at the wall. At length, casting a bleak look around his cheerless quarters, he refilled his pipe and went outside, to sit and ruminate under a whispering maple.

Eely did not again broach the subject directly. But he played his trump card in the gracious person of Mercy; played it without her realization that she was being used in a game. To her, instead of to the hard-bitten old fellow, he talked of how nice an' comf'table it would be to bring Abe into the Skinner household. Carefully he refrained from sounding any mercenary note. So the girl, eager to believe in the honesty of her relative's change of heart and genuinely concerned for the aged hillman's welfare, talked in turn to Abe. And to her he listened without sneers, for her sincerity was indubitable. However, he still clung obdurately to the shelter of his own home.

Some malicious spirit, perhaps, was in league with the plotter. At any rate, something—a slight attack of vertigo or an absent-minded misstep—tripped Abraham Billings one day on his attic stairs and hurled him crashing to the bottom. For a considerable time he lay unconscious. There he was found by Mercy, who had come up the hill with a freshly fried batch of doughnuts.

He recovered his senses to find his head in her arms and his brow wet with her tears. And, although he had been luck enough to escape without broken bones—albeit badly contused and severely shocked he yielded then and there to her pleadings. Bandaged, hobbling with a cane, he went down the road to the house of Skinner. And, save for occasional walks or rides, in the house of Skinner he stayed until his death.

He stayed, however, not as an adopted member of the household, but as a boarder. On this point he was adamant. He would pay a large weekly sum for board and room, and he would take a receipt for each payment; or he would not stay at all. In this arrangement Eely—though somewhat dismayed, since it forestalled any outrageous claims against the Billings estate—had to concur. He could not even spy out the hiding place of those receipts. They disappeared somewhere, and he harbored an uneasy feeling that they were filed where he could never destroy them. Wherefore his only hope for the future was to inveigle his guest into making the requisite last will and testament.

This was a matter which demanded extreme delicacy of treatment. He tried, though; trust Eely for that. At first he let drop artless suggestions. When these proved fruitless he became somewhat more bald about it—but never too direct; for at a certain point there would come into the aged eyes a cold glimmer which warned him to desist. His teeth were not so securely fixed in his big fish as he had anticipated, and too sharp a bite might cause it to shake him off and dart away. Hence he assiduously practiced a pose of benevolent affection. Secretly he swore at the balky old fool.

So the waning summer cooled into fall, and fall chilled into winter, and still Eely wriggled in uneasy currents of thought. Meanwhile Abe led a life of tranquil content. Eating thrice daily of Mercy's tasty cooking, enjoying to the full her restful companionship, sleeping soundly by night in the best bed she could prepare for him, smoking and meditating and strolling abroad when in the mood—this was far better than baching it in his rough-and-ready quarters up the road. And, whatever he might have thought of his host's object in lookin' out for him, he could harbor no cynicism toward the house-keeper. Her kindly care was of that unobtrusive sort which neither expects nor desires recompense.

Quite as a matter of course she mended and patched his clothing, darned his old socks, knitted new ones, and said nothing at all about it. Nor did he give the slightest sign that he was even aware of her work. Observing that he was in the habit of sitting at night in stocking feet, she knitted him a pair of gray wool slippers, soling them with two layers of soft leather; then, without a word, left them under his bed. These proved mightily comfortable to the worn old feet, and thenceforth he wore them whenever he slipped off his stiff brogans; but when he vouchsafed a pleased “Thank ye, gal,” she replied merely, “Oh, I didn't have nothin' else to do.”

Such was Mercy's way of comforting the adopted member of the family. She cheered him, too, with many a bit of banter which cracked his somewhat dour visage into wide grins. Eely, also, tickled his risibilities many a time—sometimes purposely, but more often unconsciously. And Tobe, who now came regularly to visit Mercy at her own home, delighted the soul of the ancient; he looked so sheepish when Abe twitted him about the girl, and bristled so quickly if Eely so much as emitted a sour grunt. All in all, the old fellow found life quite tolerable these days.

He was present when Tobe strode in, one mild evening, and tossed at Eely a tight roll of bills; and then, with a curt nod, turned his back and stalked out. Mercy, unasked, threw a wrap around her shoulders and went after him. The old man's eyes followed the pair along the moonlit road, then dwelt on his sleek host, whose expression was a queer complex of surprise, pleased avarice and disgruntlement over the youth's contemptuous manner. All knew, without words, that Tobe had squared his mother's debt.

Abraham nodded approvingly. His gaze at Eely, on the other hand, held something that made that honorable gentleman squirm. That was one of the evenings when Mr. Skinner made no veiled or semi-nude references to wills.

It was midwinter before Eely came out flat-footed—or as nearly so as he dared. Once a month, regularly, the old man hitched up his horse—also a boarder at a stated rate—and drove down into the valley. Despite all overtures at companionship, he went always alone. On his return from one of these pilgrimages he dropped a bank book. Eely picked it up. By the time he handed it back he knew the amount of Abraham Billings' balance in bank; twenty-four thousand odd. His head swam for an instant. Gosh, what a jag o' money! At the thought that all of it might yet go to despised and almost unknown relatives he broke into a cold sweat.

“Abe!” he blurted. ' D'ye intend to let them shif'less relations 0' yourn git all yer money? If ye don't, by gorry, man, ye'd oughter make a will an' leave it to—uh”

“To who?” rasped Abe.

“Uh—to them ye want to have it, o' course. Them that's been good to ye an' uh—wal, make sure that folks don't git it that ye don't want to have it!”

Abe stood still, a queer twinkle far back in his eyes. Then, in an odd tone: “Mebbe ye're right, Eely. I'll see 'bout it.”

On his next return from the valley he volunteered, “Made my will, Eely. Writ it myself, jest the way I want it. I've took care of everybody that ought to be.”

“Wal, that's fine, Abe, fine! I'm awful glad. Now things'll be jest the way ye want 'em. Took care o' yer good friends, o' course. How'd ye make it read?”

The questioner strove—vainly—to keep his tone disinterested. Abe smiled a wee, frosty smile.

“Made it read jest like I wanted it, I tell ye. Jedge Watts has got it, so it's all safe.”

“Uh—I see. Wal—did ye leave somethin' to—Mercy, now, mebbe?”

“Yas. Wipe off yer face, Eely; ye're sweatin' a reg'lar drizzle. I put you into it, too.”

“Did ye!” The tone was a veritable explosion of relief. “I'm awful obliged—ye needn't of done that. But o' course I'm yer best friend, ye might say, an'—wal, I'm glad ye've got things fixed!”

Eely mopped his brow. His eyes were avid for full and explicit details, but, somehow, he shrank from asking. The habit of handling his boarder gingerly had become strongly ingrained.

“I've got 'em fixed,“nodded the oldster. “I left a mite to them relations o' mine, jes' so's they couldn't say they was cut off 'thout nothin', an' bust the will. Everything else goes to them that deserves it. An' now I don't want to hear no more 'bout wills—now or never.”

Nor did he, except from Mercy. As he sat down and incased his feet in those soft slippers which she had made for him, she drifted over and gave him a hug.

“Thank ye,” she said simply. “But I want ye to live so long there won't be nothin' left!”

Eely scowled. Fool gal! Wishin' bad luck onto herself and him, too! Let the old numskull die as quick as he could! He swiftly erased his frown, however, and murmured a throaty assent to her wish. He still had to be careful. Wills could be changed.

The will, however, was not changed. Pneumonia killed Abe before the snow was gone. He died with Mercy weeping over him; Tobe standing solemn-faced beside him; and Eely fidgeting at the door, squeezing out a crocodile tear or two while his heart pounded with exultation. The sixty-dollar bet had won! Ah, but he was the shrewd fellow, was Eely!

Hardly had the breath of life left the ancient body before he was importantly informing all comers that he and Mercy were the heirs to virtually all the estate. Hardly were the simple funeral services ended when he was unmercifully lashing the dead man's horse at top speed toward town and Judge Watts. The Billings bank book was nowhere to be found; perhaps Watts had it in his safe; at any rate it was his duty to produce the will and see to its execution.

Despite the raw cold of the air the expectant legatee oozed perspiration as he clambered out and clattered upstairs to the judge's office. There he demanded an instant accounting.

He did not get it. The grizzled justice, taciturn and phlegmatic, listened deliberately, and as deliberately answered.

“You ain't the only heir, Skinner. You go home an' notify everybody interested to come to your house—le's see—Friday afternoon. I'll drive up an' read the will then. There's three grandnephews that git a little slice, but they live down-state, so they won't be here to the readin'; I'll tend to them through the proper channels. Everybody else lives in The Traps. Friday afternoon at three o'clock, Skinner. Good day.”

To expostulation and argument he turned a deaf ear. Chagrined, Eely departed. Yet, as he went he visioned the gatherin' at his home, with himself as the center of importance—richest man into The Traps, now, by mighty! That would be doing it in style—everybody there envying him Judge Watts reading solemnly. Yes, he'd have everyone there!

He did. Friday afternoon the house was jammed. People stood outside at open doors and windows. In the main room, where a cheery fire repelled the outer chill, the portly justice affixed his spectacles, cleared his throat and proceeded to read. His sonorous tones reached every straining ear.

“The last will an' testament of Abraham Billin's, wrote by his own hand, an' duiy witnessed in my presence,” he announced. “Disposin' of all his property, real an' personal, to the followin' legatees: James, Henry an' Thomas Hawes—his only livin' relations—an' Tobias Boggs, Mercy Davis an' Elias Skinner.”

Three pairs of eyes widened in astonishment—Tobe's, Mercy's and Eely's. Tobe was remembered in the will! But the justice was speaking.

“Leavin' out the preamble about the sound mind an' so on, it reads as follows:

“'To my grandnephews, James an' Henry an' Thomas Hawes, who never done a thing for me, I give an' bequeath all money standin' to my account into the bank, to be divided equal amongst them.

“'To Tobias Boggs '”

“What!” squalled Eely, bouncing up. “All his money to them Haweses? Them? Why, the ol' varmint”

“Hush up!” snapped the justice. “I might's well tell ye now, all the money in that bank is jest three dollars. Makin' one dollar apiece for James an' Hen—”

“Three dollars! Twenty-four thousand! I see the book one day.”

“Mebbe ye did, Skinner. But he drawed out all but three dollars. He left the book with me. Here it is.”

Eely, with eyes bulging, snatched the little buff book, stared, gulped, and sat down. It was true. The Hawes brothers would receive but a dollar each. Watts resumed reading.

“'To Tobias Boggs, a straight an' square feller that will work the place right, I give an' bequeath my house an' land an' everything into it an' onto it, exceptin' as provided hereinafter. Providin' also that him an' Mercy Davis git married, if not already married before my death. If so be that for any reason they don't want to git married, then my place shall be theirs joint an' equal, share an' share alike.

“'To Mercy Davis I give an' bequeath an old man's blessin' an' the pair of slippers she knit for me. They are kind of wore out, but I hope she will mend 'em up an' keep 'em always by her for remembrance.'”

The reader paused. The listeners, mentally calculating, murmured and looked at Eely.

Eely himself grinned malevolently at his cousin—cut off with a worn pair of slippers! Now must come the big bequest; and, all others having been eliminated, it must come to him.

“'To Elias Skinner'”

The justice paused once more, a cryptic smile twitching the corners of his mouth. Eely, exuding at every pore, leaned far forward. The whole audience tensely awaited the final words.

“'To Elias Skinner, who skun me once an' has been tryin' awful hard to do it again, I give an' bequeath the followin':

“'Thirty days after death, my best bucksaw an' sawhorse. Hopin' he will use 'em to do some honest work for once, so to work off his pussy belly an' sweat out his fool idee that he can outsmart everybody.'”

At the last words Judge Watts chuckled. Then he stopped reading and began folding up the remarkable document. For a long minute stunned silence reigned.

Somebody snickered. The sound rippled along doors and windows, grew into a bubble of chuckles, geysered into stentorian guffaws. Men pounded one another on the shoulders; women leaned together and laughed until they cried; children squealed and pointed at the pasty-faced, flabby Eely, who seemed to have shrunken within his clothes.

“But whar's the money?” bawled a stalwart hillman. “Who gits the twenty thousand?”

“I dunno,” disclaimed Judge Watts. “There ain't no more to the will. Abe drawed that money, an' what he done with it he never told me.”

“Ye lie!” hoarsely accused Eely, heaving himself to his feet. “Ye got that money yerself! He give it to ye to keep safe—an' ye kep' it! I'll have the law ”

“Stop!” thundered the justice. “One more word an' I'll put ye under arrest for criminal libel! Law, hey? I'll give ye law!”

His defamer choked, pawed the air, and quailed.

“I—I didn't mean jest that. I”

“No, I guess not!” growled Watts. “'Say nothin' an' saw wood' had better be your motto, Skinner!”

Another ripple of mirth, rising to a tidal wave.

“Saw wood, Eely!” howled someone. “Git yer sawhoss an' sweat out yer idees! Thutty days after death, hey? Haw, haw, haw!”

Eely was engulfed. He lost all control. He screeched. He raved. He threw his arms about as if to shove from him the merciless cordon of convulsed faces. He turned purple. The more he mouthed and squirmed, the more they bellowed and hugged themselves.

All at once he staggered, clutched at his throat, toppled headlong; twitched a few times, and was still.

The ridicule stopped short. Judge Watts knelt and made a swift examination. Rising, he spoke soberly.

“Folks, he's got a stroke. He's gone.”

“Dead?” gasped a voice.

“Dead!”

Thirty days after the death of Elias Skinner, on a witchingly soft afternoon of early spring, a youth and a maid sat very close together under old Abe's favorite maple.

The girl absently held a pair of worn knit slippers, in the toes of which were a thimble and a spool of stout thread.

“Wal, we've waited thutty days,” reminded Tobe. “That's long 'nough to show all the respect that's necessary to the dead. Tomorrer we're a-goin' down an' git married.”

“What makes ye think so?” Mercy saucily tilted her head.

“'Cause I jest can't wait no longer. That's why.”

“Oh. Wal, I s'pose mebbe we might as well git it over with.” Her tone was resigned, but her dancing eyes provoked him into a hug that left her gasping. With mock severity she added, “Don't muss me no more, ye big lummox! I've got some mendin' to do.”

With a deep happy laugh he subsided. His gaze rested on the slippers.

“Poor ol' Abe!” he murmured. “I bet he got lots o' comfort out o' them things. Kep' 'em by him all the time, didn't he?”

“M-m. An' I'm goin' to keep 'em. Why, that's funny! What makes 'em so lumpy, like?” She pinched one soft leather sole, then the other. “Feels like he'd padded 'em with somethin'. Yes, sir, here's where he cut a long slit inside an' sewed it up again.”

Tobe started.

“By gorry! He told ye into his will to mend 'em up. Le's see 'em!”

A keen knife blade slit both soles. A silence. Then a girl's sobbing cry: “Oh the dear—ol'—man!”

The padding was formed of oblong sheets of paper. On one, written in the crabbed hand of Abraham Billings, was his simple benediction:

“To a Good Girl.”

All the others were bank notes of large denomination. They totaled twenty-four thousand dollars.