“Don’t, don’t leave me, friend; bear with me; age can’t help some distrust; it can’t, friend, it can’t. Ugh, ugh, ugh! Oh, I am so old and miserable. I ought to have a guardian. Tell me, if——”
“If? No more!”
“Stay! how soon—ugh, ugh!—would my money be trebled? How soon, friend?”
“You won’t confide. Good-bye!”
“Stay, stay,” falling back now like an infant, “I confide, I confide; help, friend, my distrust!”
From an old buckskin pouch, tremulously dragged forth, ten hoarded eagles, tarnished into the appearance of ten old horn-buttons, were taken, and half-eagerly, half-reluctantly, offered.
“I know not whether I should accept this slack confidence,” said the other coldly, receiving the gold, “but an eleventh-hour confidence, a sick-bed confidence, a distempered, death-bed confidence, after all. Give me the healthy confidence of healthy men, with their healthy wits about them. But let that pass. All right. Good-bye!”
“Nay, back, back—receipt, my receipt! Ugh, ugh, ugh! Who are you? What have I done? Where go you? My gold, my gold! Ugh, ugh, ugh!”
But, unluckily for this final flicker of reason, the stranger was now beyond ear-shot, nor was any one else within hearing of so feeble a call.