“Jonas, Jonas, you will be sorry for that,” said Mr. Nickerson, who covered his face with his hands.
“Get out of here! Get out, you inspired idiot!” roared Jonas, striding up and down the cabin as if he were demented. “Don’t you dare come into this house again.”
“Oh, father!” exclaimed Mrs. Keeler.
“Shut up your yawp, old woman,” said Jonas, turning upon her. “That was the keepsake he had to give to me, was it? I thought it was money, dog-gone it, and here he comes and presents me with a book! He shan’t stay in my house no longer.”
Mr. Nickerson went out and tottered to the barn, and when Nat found him there a few minutes later he was doubled up with his elbows on his knees, but his jaws were working vigorously. If there was nothing else which could comfort him, he found it in his tobacco.
“Here’s your book, Mr. Nickerson,” said Nat, who, if he had been big enough, would have resented the way the old man had been treated. “Shall I take it back and put it among your things?”
“No; never mind that now. Jonas has told me that I can not go into his house again, and he may rest assured that I will never do it.”
“He did not mean what he said,” exclaimed Nat. “He is all over his passion by this time.”
“It is too late. He will never see a cent of my money. Did you put those leaves all in just as you found them?”
“I tried, but I reckon I did not succeed very well.”