I was thrusting the old quilt into his arms—laughing, crying—while he stared down at me with puzzled face. Then he stared at the quilt and seemed still more astonished.
“The treasure?” he repeated, mechanically. “The treasure?”
“HE STRETCHED OUT A LEAN HAND TO TAKE IT, BUT MR. CHESTER SNATCHED IT HASTILY AWAY.”
“Yes; yes!” I cried. “Four to the right, diagonally three. See!” and I guided his hand to the proper square.
“Why, bless my soul!” he exclaimed, as he felt of it. “There is something here. Let us see,” and he got out his pen-knife.
“No, you don’t!” cried Silas Tunstall’s voice from the door. “It’s too late—it’s all settled, ain’t it? You’ve give up, ain’t you? That there quilt’s mine, an’ I’d thank you to return it!”
He stretched out a lean hand to take it, but Mr. Chester snatched it hastily away.
“It’s mine, I tell you!” he repeated hotly. “Give it back, ’r I’ll hev you arrested, you thief!”
I could not but admire the man. Even in a moment such as this, he had presence of mind to retain the drawl.