“I’m goin’ to buy some furnitur’ of Rube, an’ he won’t let it go less’n he gets the cash in his hands first,” answered Matt.
“What do you want of furniture while you are living in Rube’s house? Why can’t you use his?”
“How do you happen to know that I am livin’ into Rube’s house?” demanded the squatter, opening his eyes.
“Why, every body knows it,” replied Tom, carelessly. “It is pretty well known, too, that you narrowly escaped capture when the sheriff’s posse surrounded that house the other morning. Where are you living now, and what has become of Jake?”
“Say,” replied Matt, speaking in the confidential tone that had so exasperated Tom on a former occasion. “I don’t mind telling you all about it. Things is gettin’ too public around Rube’s house to suit us, an’, besides, we don’t think he’s the friend to us that he pertends to be; so we’re goin’ to take to the bresh, an’ there we’re goin’ to stay. I want some chairs an’ bed fixin’s to furnish my shanty, when I get it built. Rube’s got ’em, but he wants the ready money for ’em. I seen you when you was down there to the hatchery, an’ that’s the reason I come up here to ketch you.”
“All right,” said Tom. “How soon can you produce those guns?”
“I can have ’em here to-morrer mornin’ by sun-up.”
“That’s too early for me,” replied Tom. “We have breakfast about six, and I can get here by seven; I will be here.”
“Not to-morrer?” exclaimed Matt.
“Yes, to-morrow.”