“The money, ye rascal—the $145.”
“I haven’t got as much as that.”
“Wal, you’ve got some. Whar is it, I axes ye?”
“It is concealed where you will never think of looking for it, and there it shall stay.”
“I’ll bet a hoss that it don’t stay thar,” shouted Jack, stamping the ground and shaking his fists in his rage. “Mark my words. Afore I’m done with ye, ye’ll come to this bluff an’ give me that money with yer own hands.”
“And mark my words,” replied Julian calmly. “I shall do nothing of the kind. I’ll die first. It is mine—you’ve no right to it, and you shan’t have it.”
“Never mind the money now, Bowles,” exclaimed Mr. Mortimer, who was becoming impatient at the delay. “You will have plenty of time to hunt for it after your return from New Orleans. We must begin our journey at once.”
Jack, reluctant to abandon the search, took another turn about the camp, and after venting some of his spite by pulling down Julian’s brush cabin and kicking over the squirrels that were broiling before the fire, picked up the blankets and the rifle, and seizing the boy roughly by the arm hurried him down the bluff. After placing him behind Mr. Mortimer on his horse he disappeared in the woods and presently returned, mounted on his own nag, and led the way toward the clearing. He did not follow the road, as Julian hoped he would, but to avoid meeting any of the settlers, held straight through the woods. He was moody and sullen during the whole of the ride, and the deep scowl on his forehead showed that he was thinking intently.
“The minute Julian drops overboard from the flatboat, that minute I shall have $200 put into my hands,” soliloquized Mr. Bowles. “That’s a monstrous heap of money fur a poor man like me, but I’d like to have them $145, too. Now how am I goin’ to get it? That’s what I’d like to know. I’ll never find it unless Julian tells me whar it is, an’ if he’s at the bottom of the river he can’t tell me. Hain’t thar no way fur me to push him overboard without drownin’ him?”