“One hundred and sixty-four dollars and fifty cents,” said David, as he rolled up the money, replaced it in the tin box and put the cover on it. “It is all here, and now what are we going to do with it until Don comes home? Think up a good place to hide it, mother.”
At this moment one of the two eager pairs of eyes was suddenly withdrawn from the crack between the logs, a tall, gaunt figure moved with quick and noiseless footsteps around the end of the cabin and a strong hand was laid upon the latch. David and his mother started up in great alarm, and the boy, with a presentiment that his money was in danger, hastily slipped it under the foot of the “shake down” in which he slept. Again the door was tried and a familiar voice exclaimed:
“Shettin’ me outen my own house, be ye? What be ye doin’ it fur, I axes ye?”
“It’s father,” whispered David with a sinking at his heart; and while his mother was advancing to undo the fastenings of the door he quickly snatched up his box again, and raising one of the stones which formed the hearth, he put the box under it and stood upon it to force the stone back to its place.
The fastenings being undone the door was thrown open and the master of the house, pale and haggard, stalked into the room. His wife had seen him look so once before, and that was when he was hiding from the Union soldiers.
“Why, Godfrey!” exclaimed Mrs. Evans. “I am so glad you have come back.”
“Glad, be ye?” cried her husband, turning fiercely upon her and shaking off the hand she had laid upon his arm. “I reckon ye be. Here’s me been a layin’ out all these cold nights, a freezin’ and a starvin’, an’ ye never sent me a blanket to kiver myself up with, nor a bite of grub to eat. Glad, be ye? Sich talk don’t go down, ole woman!”
“Why, father, there’s only one blanket in the house,” said Mrs. Evans.
“Then why didn’t ye send me no grub?” demanded Godfrey, angrily.
“I didn’t know where to find you,” was the meek reply.