“I s’pose I did, durn it,” answered Stamps. “I got drenched to the skin, an’ I hadn’t nothin’ dry to put on when I got home. But I’d seen ye—an’ told ye what I’d ’lowed to tell ye.”
“Where are the papers you spoke of?” Latimer asked.
Stamps’s feverish lips stretched themselves in an agreeable smile.
“They ain’t yere,” he answered; “an’ they won’t be yere till I’ve got the pay fur ’em. Ef thar was names in ’em they’d cost ye a heap more than five hundred dollars—an’ they’d cost ye more anyhow ef I hadn’t a use for that five hundred jest this particular time.”
“Where are they?” enquired Latimer. He meant to waste no words.
“They’re in North Ca’lliny,” answered the little mountaineer, cheerfully. “An’ I’ve got a woman thar es’ll send ’em when I want ’em.”
“She may send them when you wish.”
Stamps fell into a paroxysm of coughing, clutching his side.
“Will ye give five hundred?” he panted when it was over.
“Yes.”