“But that is impossible, my boy. Come, you will do that for me?”
“I don’t see why I should,” replied Sam; “you don’t make things very pleasant for me.”
“But I will, my boy, I will do anything you like; and don’t you understand how important it is for you?”
“Yes, I begin to see,” said Sam coolly. “You’ve got yourself into a scrape, father, over some of young Tom Blount’s affairs, and you want to make cat’s-paws of me.”
“No, sir,” cried his father angrily.
“Oh, but you do.”
“I do want you to help me get those—those—”
“Chestnuts,” said Sam, with a grin.
“Well, call them that if you like, my boy,” said his father, trying to be jocose, but looking ghastly pale the while, and with the perspiration standing in tiny drops upon his forehead. “But you must help me, Sam. The money will all be yours by and by.”
Sam sat back staring straight before him in silence for a few minutes, while his father watched him intently.