"'Tain't enough fer a three-way split," said Maurice.
"Well, you can't hinder me from stayin', an' I figger I'm in fer a third," said Anson, seating himself doggedly near the stove.
Billy's face cracked into a grin which he was careful to turn from his step-brother. "How'd you like to do all the firin' an' get all the reward, Anse?" he suggested. "I've got a milk-snake here that I want'a get put safe away in the root-house afore Ma takes in the lantern. Maurice'll come along an' help me stow him away."
"All right, I'll stay an' fire," agreed Anson. "But remember," as the other boys reached for their hats, "I ain't agoin' to share up what Missus Keeler gives me with you fellers."
"You're welcome to keep all she gives you fer yourself," said Billy.
"Sure," said Maurice. "She'll likely hold somethin' back fer me, anyway. Don't ferget to keep a good fire on, Anse," he admonished, as he followed Billy outside.
CHAPTER VII
THE RABBIT FOOT CHARM
The place which old Harry O'Dule called home was a crumbling log cabin on the shore of Levee Creek, just on the border of the Scroggie bush. Originally it had been built as a shelter for sheep, but with the clearing of the land it had fallen into disuse. O'Dule had found it on one of his pilgrimages and had promptly appropriated it unto himself. Nobody thought of disputing his possession, perhaps because most of the good people of Scotia inwardly feared the old man's uncanny powers of second sight, and the foreshadowing—on those who chose to cross him—of dire evils, some of which had been known to materialize. Old Harry boasted that he was the seventh son of a seventh son.
"It's born under a caul was I," he told them. "An' minny a mystery has been cleared up in ould Ireland be meself, I'm tellin' ye."