When at last he started for the tanyard, he knew by the sun that he was long over-due. He walked briskly along the path through the sassafras and sumach bushes, on which the rain-drops still clung. He was presently brushing them off in showers, for he had begun to run. It occurred to him that this was no time to seem even a trifle remiss in his work at the tanyard. Since he had lost all his hopes down the ravine, the continuance of Jube Perkins’s favor and the dreary routine with the mule and the bark-mill were his best prospects. It would never do to offend the tanner now.
“With sech a pack o’ chill’n ter vittle ez we-uns hev got at our house,” he muttered.
As he came crashing through the underbrush into view of the tanyard, he noticed instantly that it did not wear its usual simple, industrial aspect. A group of excited men were standing in front of the shed, one of them gesticulating wildly.
And running toward the bars came Tim Griggs, panting and white-faced, and exclaiming incoherently at the sight of Birt.
“Oh, Birt,” he cried, “I war jes’ startin’ to yer house arter you-uns; they tole me to go an’ fetch ye. Fur massy’s sake, gimme Nate’s grant. I’m fairly afeared o’ him. He’ll break every bone I own.” He held out his hand. “Gimme the grant!”
“Nate’s grant!” exclaimed Birt aghast. “I hain’t got it! I hain’t” -
He paused abruptly. He could not say that he had not touched it.
Tim’s wits were sharpened by the keen anxiety of the crisis. He noticed the hesitation. “Ye hev hed it,” he cried wildly. “Ye know ye hev been foolin’ with it. Ye know ’twar you-uns!”
He changed to sudden appeal. “Don’t put the blame off on me, Birt,” he pleaded. “I’m fairly afeared o’ Nate.”
“Ain’t the grant in the pocket o’ his coat - whar ye left it hangin’ on a peg in the shed?” asked Birt, dismayed.