"Oh, I know the police!" snorted the farmer. "They ain't worth a hill of beans."
"Well, Songbird told me to tell you that if the money is not recovered, he will do all he can to make good the loss," continued Sam.
"Make good the loss? Has he got four thousand dollars?" questioned the farmer, curiously.
"Oh, no! Songbird isn't as wealthy as all that. He has only his regular allowance. But he said he'd work and earn the money, if he had to."
"Humph! How is he going to earn it—writing poetry? They don't pay much for that kind of writing, to my way of thinking."
"Now, Pa, please don't get so excited," soothed the daughter. "Let us be thankful that John wasn't killed. If he had been, I never would have forgiven you for having sent him on that errand."
"Oh, now, don't you pitch into me. Minnie!" cried the father. "I've lost my four thousand dollars and that's bad enough. If I can't pay that mortgage, Grisley may foreclose and then you and me will be out of a home."
"Nothing like that will happen, Mr. Sanderson," said Sam.
"I don't know why."
"The mortgage is on this farm, isn't it?"