CHAPTER XXXVIII
THE DEACON’S DIPLOMACY.
Fiercely the squire was limping to and fro, between his office-room and Mrs. Peternot’s kitchen, compressing his lips, and striking the floor every now and then with his cane, as he exclaimed, “He shall lay in jail! I’ll prosecute him! State’s prison’s too good for him!” when his wife called from the window, “Squire! squire! Here’s Deacon Chatford, jest drove up; beckonin’ and hollerin’!”
“What now, I wonder?” said Peternot, as he put on his hat and went out, frowning, to meet his neighbor. “Wal! what is it, deacon?”
“I’ve thought of a plan,” said Mr. Chatford, hurriedly. “Get in here; we’ll talk as we ride. There’s not a minute to lose!”
“What plan?” demanded the stern old squire.
“For settling the difficulty.”
“The diffikilty can’t be settled, unless peradventur’ the boy gives up the money.”
“That’s just it!” cried the deacon. “He said he was willing to give it up; and now it’s fallen into my hands.”
“The treasure? in your hands?” exclaimed Peternot, limping quickly towards the buggy.