“Now keep dark, boys,” said Hank, stopping behind some quince-bushes, “till I see how the land lays.” He stole round the edge of the bushes, to a spot that commanded a good view of the window, not more than two rods off. Being tall, he could look into it and see by the light of a dim tallow candle what was going on in the Peternot sitting-room.
“All right. Only the old man and woman. She’s jest goin’ into t’ other room,—to bed, I guess. He sets by the table, chin in his hands; book open beside him,—Bible, looks like,—but he ain’t readin’. No, she ain’t goin’ to bed,—there she comes back agin.”
“Keep still!” whispered Jack. “There’s somebody!”
Somebody approaching from the street, entering the yard, walking straight towards the house, and passing out of sight by the front corner.
“Old man’s nephew! the Dinks feller!” whispered Hank. “Comes in at the door,—says something,—old man looks up,—lights another candle; they are going to another room.”
A light now appeared at another window, which Jack, greatly excited, discovered to be partly open. Close by it grew a lilac-bush, under cover of which he drew near, and peeped. He saw the tall form of Peternot cross the room, and then heard a clatter of chairs. Growing bolder, he advanced his head still farther, and saw uncle and nephew seated between a bureau in one corner, and a table on which the light was, at one side of the room.
“Did ye see ’em? have a talk with ’em?” Peternot was saying.
“Yes,” replied Byron Dinks; “they didn’t have much of a sing,—schoolma’am wasn’t there,—not much company; but, having an eye to the winter school, thought I’d stay and make myself agreeable.”
“That’s right, that’s right, nephew. And did ye make it all smooth with Mr. Chatford?”
“I guess so; said you thought only of doing your duty in the matter; you didn’t want the money, but, knowing it was counterfeit—”