“The fences don’t need rebuildin’ very often,” went on Mr. Elder, “and, allowin’ the same amount for your board an’ clothes, I figure that Mr. Stockwell must owe you considerable more than one thousand dollars.”
“He hasn’t got it to pay,” exclaimed Bud at once thinking of Mrs. Stockwell. “An’, besides, I don’t want it. He wasn’t very bad to me.”
“That’s for the Court to say,” continued Mr. Elder. “At least, since you’re not living with him now, there’s anyway over five hundred dollars a year comin’ to you from that land from now on.”
“And,” added Mr. Camp, crossing the room to the cuspidor, and parting his flowing beard, “in three years, when you git yer edication, there’ll be the eighty acres. I’ll give you ten thousand dollars fur it.”
“Mr. Elder,” said Bud at last, his voice choking, “I told you one day last week I wanted to do something in this town because I wanted to ‘make good.’”
The pleased and smiling banker looked at him. Then he pointed to the package of one hundred and fifty dollars on the table.
“That shows you made good with us,” he said, as Bud stood looking at the money.
“I didn’t mean that,” Bud exclaimed with feeling. “I wanted to ‘make good’ with some one that counted. If I ‘made good’ with you and with Mr. Camp, I’m satisfied—I’m happy.”
“Let’s all go down to my house for dinner,” said Mr. Elder, turning away abruptly as if to change the subject.