With an inarticulate cry the old peddler seized the wallet that was handed down to him. He shook like a leaf as Tom held the lantern for him to count the money. Now that the strain was over, Mr. Hinman's legs became suddenly too weak to support him. He sank to the ground, Tom squatting close so that the lantern's rays would fall where they would be most useful. Thus the old peddler counted his money with trembling fingers.
"Where did you find the wallet?" young Prescott asked Darrin.
"Up against the side of the wagon, under a partly tilted, upsidedown feed-pail," Dave answered. "I can understand why Mr. Hinman didn't find it. He was too much upset—-too nervous, and it certainly didn't look like a likely place."
"It must have fallen out of his pocket as he slept," Prescott guessed correctly. "Did you find any papers down there on the floor of the wagon?"
"Yes; some sort of paper stuff," nodded Dave. "I took it for rubbish."
"The money is all here!" cried the old peddler, in a frenzy of joy. "Oh, how can I thank you young men? You don't know what your blessed help means for me!"
"Was it all the money you had?" Dick asked feelingly.
"Yes; all except for few loose dollars that I have in a little sack in my trousers pocket," replied Mr. Hinman.
"Then it was all you had in the world, outside of your peddling stock and your horse and cart?" Prescott continued.
"All except a little house and barn that I own, and the small piece of ground they stand on," said the peddler. "If I had not found my money I would have been obliged to mortgage my little home to a bank—-and then I am afraid I could not have repaid the bank, and my home would be taken from me."