“No, I won’t,” replied Rube, lowering his own voice almost to a whisper.
“You won’t never tell pap nor mam nor Sam, nor none of ’em, honor bright an’ sure hope to die?”
“No, I won’t,” repeated Rube.
“Say honor bright; ’cause if you ever let on to Sam what I say to you, he’ll tell pap, an’ pap, he’ll wear a hickory out on me.”
“Honor bright I won’t tell,” said Rube.
“Say,” whispered Jake. “I’ve done a heap fur pap fust an’ last, an’ he ain’t never give me nothin’ fur it, ’ceptin’ that ole canvas canoe I brung home to-day. I sold them poles that he stole from Joe Wayring an’ his crowd down on Sherwin’s pond, an’ he never once said to me: ’Jakey, here’s a couple of dollars to buy you a pair of shoes agin winter comes.’ Now I say that was mighty stingy in pap. He says them guns may stay where they be till they sp’ile, afore you or any body ’ceptin’ himself shall make any money outen ’em.”
Jake could see by the way Rube hung his head that he was sorry to hear this. After a long pause he looked up and said:
“Well, what of it?”
“Well,” continued Jake, “I can’t see the use of them guns layin’ there doin’ nobody no good, when I might jest as well have the reward that’s been offered fur ’em.”
“No more do I,” assented Rube.