“It’s the business of a magistrate to look after counterfeiters and counterfeit money,” said Peternot. But at the same time he thought, “He has satisfied himself that it ain’t counterfeit; his whole conduct shows it.” And the avaricious old man still laid siege to the basket.
Half an hour passed, during which time very little was said. Jack took out his knife and began to whittle a stick; perhaps he was not unwilling to show the squire that he was armed. He also put on his coat, and then his shoes, after emptying their contents into the basket.
Peternot grew more and more impatient, as he saw the afternoon gliding away. Another half-hour, and the situation still remained unchanged. “I may set here till night,” thought he, “and all night, and all day to-morrow, fur’s I know,—but what’s the use? He’ll stick as long as I do. He’s tough; he can stand anything; ye can’t starve a canal-driver. Sakes!” he exclaimed, half aloud, suddenly putting his hand into his pocket, remembering that the key of his kitchen door was there.
On leaving home he had carefully made fast all the doors and windows of his house,—his wife and nephew having gone to meeting that afternoon; and now, should they return before he did, they would find themselves locked out!
Still the old man’s cupidity would not suffer him to raise the siege.
He was taken by a fit of coughing; and, fearing to catch cold by sitting on the damp log, he got up and walked about,—frowning and striking his cane upon the ground in huge dissatisfaction and disgust. “You’re the most obstinate, unreasonable boy I ever see!” he exclaimed angrily.
“Am I?” laughed Jack. “You haven’t begun to see how obstinate I am. Wonder what you’ll think to-morrow at this time? or the next day?” And what, he might have added, would the wife and nephew think?
“Hush!” whispered the old man. “What boys are those?”
There was a crackling of sticks in a not very distant part of the woods, occasioned by a gang of four or five boys climbing Peternot’s brush fence. Jack jumped upon the log and looked.
“It’s the Huswick tribe,” said he. “There’s Dock, there’s Hank, there’s Cub,—there they all are, going over your fence like a flock of sheep!”