“Do?” said Fred, in astonishment. “Why, we haven’t found any of the money yet.”
“What money?”
“The money the old miser buried, of course.”
The man laughed heartily. “I wasn’t digging for any miser’s money,” said he.
“You said so,” said Fred.
“O, no!” said the man. “I said I was digging for a fortune. Come and sit down, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
They took seats on the highest of the cellar steps that led out of doors.
“You see,” continued the man, “my wife went down cellar one day, and struck her forehead against one of those beams; and she died of it. If she had lived a week longer, she’d have inherited a very pretty property. So I’ve lowered the cellar floor; and if I should have another wife, her head couldn’t reach the beams, unless she was very tall—taller than I am. So if she inherits a fortune, the cellar won’t prevent us getting it. That’s the fortune I was digging for.”
“It’s a mean trick to play on a boy; and if I was a man, I’d lick you,” said Fred, as he shouldered his bundle and walked away.
Two or three miles farther down the road he came to a small blacksmith shop. The smith, a stout, middle-aged man, was sitting astride of a small bench with long legs, making horseshoe nails on a little anvil that rose from one end of it.