"Know 'im! Well, I guess! I know 'im too d--n well. But who are you, and what do ye want with the parson's mail?"
"Oh, I live with him now. I'm Dan, old Jim's boy. Didn't you know I was there?"
"Ha, ha, that's a good one! To think that I should know every brat who comes to the place."
"I'm not a brat! I'm almost a man," and Dan straightened himself up. "Give me my mail, please; Parson John's waiting for it."
"Let 'im wait. I'm not supposed to give out mail to all the riff-raff who comes fer it. Why doesn't he come 'imself?"
"He's busy."
"Busy! busy! Yes, I s'pose he is busy, plannin' mischief; wonderin' what to do with Billy Fletcher's gold. How much did he git? I s'pose he gave you some to hold yer tongue."
Farrington had no intention of uttering these last words, but his heart was so full of anger that he hardly knew what he was saying.
Dan's eyes flashed, and his little hands suddenly doubled at his side. He did not comprehend the meaning of these words, but he felt that his friend, the white-headed old man, was being insulted. With him to think was to act, and many a boy larger than himself had felt the lightning blows of those little tense knuckles.
"What do ye mean?" he demanded, looking up into Farrington's face.