“I don’t want it,” said Henderson, who was paler now than when he was looking into Mr. Chisholm’s six-shooter. “The pocket-book I wanted contains papers that relate to me. I have nothing whatever to do with the receipts.”
“Or shall it go to the boy who has done nothing but mourn for him ever since he was brought in?” said Mr. Chisholm, paying no heed to the interruption. “Of course the money goes with it.”
“Now you’re talking,” said Henderson, brightening a little. “Give me the money and let this boy have the pocket-book. It’s mine, and I don’t see why you should want to keep it from me.”
“And you say you never saw this boy before?” said Mr. Chisholm.
“Never in my life,” returned Henderson. “When I saw that boy come by me and go into the wagon I was dumfounded.”
“Bob, you say you have seen this man before?”
“I used to see him every day in St. Louis,” replied Bob, who was very much cast down. “He used to live at our house.”
“He is very much mistaken. He never saw me. I have never been in St. Louis in my life.”
“Seeing that Henderson is next of kin,” said one of the farmers, stepping forward, “I think the money ought to go to him.”
“And the pocket-book to Bob?” added Mr. Chisholm.