"Who sh'd Oi be but Dinny O'Sullivan? 'An' phwat do Oi do fer a livin'?' sez ye. 'Til last winter Oi worked f'r Timothy McClusky, thot owned this trac' an' w'd died befoor he'd av sold ut to th' Syndicate. Good wages, he paid me, an' Oi kep' off th' timber thayves, an' put out foires, an' what not. An' Oi thrapped an' fished betoimes an' Oi made me a livin'. Thin, McClusky sold th' timber. 'Ye betther come on back wid me, Dinny,' sez he. 'Back to the owld sod. Ut's rich Oi'll be over there, Dinny, an' Oi'll see ye'll niver want.'
"But, ut's foorty year an' more since Oi come to Amurica, an' Oi'd be a stranger back yon. 'Oi'll stay,' Oi sez, 'f'r Oi've got used to th' woods, an' whin they cut down th' timber, Oi'll move on till somewheres they ain't cut.' 'Ut's hatin' Oi am to lave yez behind, Dinny,' sez he, 'but, Oi won't lave ye poor, fer ye've served me well,' an' wid thot, he puts his hand in his pocket loike, an' pulls out some bills, an' he hands 'em to me. 'Put 'em by f'r a rainy day, Dinny,' he sez, an' thin he wuz gone. Oi come insoide an' barred th' dure, an' Oi counted th' money in me hand. Tin bills they wuz, all bright an' new an' clane, an' aich bill wuz foive hunder' dollars. 'Twas more money thin Oi'd iver see, or thought to see, an' ut wuz all moine—moine to kape or to spind, to t'row away er to save. 'Oi'll save ut,' sez Oi, 'loike McClusky said, ag'in' a rainy day.' An' Oi loosed a board in th' flure—'tiz th' wan to th' left in under th' bunk, yonder—an' Oi put th' bills in a tobaccy tin an' put 'em in th' hole Oi'd scooped out, an' put back th' board." The little old man paused and poked noisily at the stove, fumbled in his pockets and produced a short, black cutty pipe and a pouch of tobacco, and continued:
"Oi've wor-rked hard from six years owld to siventy, but ut's not in th' name av O'Sullivan to lay an-nything by. 'Twus come hard an' go aisy—but f'r a month Oi niver lifted th' board. Thin wan day Oi tuk 'em out an' counted 'em. Th' nixt wake Oi done th' same. Th' days begun to git shorter, an' th' noights colder, an' th' ducks come whistlin' out av th' narth. Ivery day, now, Oi'd take thim bills out an' count 'em. Oi cut three little notches in the carners wid me knife—'tis the mark Oi file on me thraps, so whin an-nyone sees 'em, 'Tiz Dinny O'Sullivan's bill,' they'll say, an' Oi can't lose 'em. ''Tiz a cowld winter comin', Dinny,' sez Oi, 'f'r th' mushrats is buildin' airly. Yer gittin' owld f'r th' thrappin',' sez Oi, but Oi know'd 'twuz a loie whin Oi said ut; 'beloike ye'd betther go to th' city.' 'Ye'll not!' sez Oi, moindin' what McClusky said about a rainy day. An' Oi put back th' bills an' covered thim wid th' board. Th' nixt day ut wuz cloudy an' cowld, an' Oi set be th' stove an' counted me bills. 'Th' loights is bright av an avenin' in th' city, Dinny,' Oi sez, 'an' there's shows an' what not, an' min av yer koind to palaver. Ut's loike a mink ye'll be livin' in yer hole in th' woods av ye stay. There's too much money, an-nyhow,' Oi sez; 'av ye don't git sick, ye don't nade ut, an' if ye do, 'twill outlast ye, an' whin ye die, who'll have th' spindin' av thim clane new bills? They's prob'ly O'Sullivans lift unhung yit in Oirland,' sez Oi—though av me mimory's good, they's few that aught to be—'Oi'll spend 'em mesilf.' Th' wind wailed t'rough th' trees loike th' banshee. Oi looked out th' windie—'twuz rainin'. ''Tis a token,' sez Oi; ''tiz th' rainy day thot McClusky said w'd come.'" The old man chuckled. "'Tiz loike thot a man argys whin ut's himself's th' judge an' jury.
"So Oi put th' bills in me pocket an' tuck th' thrain fer St. Paul. Oi seen Moike Gillum on th' thrain an' Oi show'd um me money. 'Go back to th' woods, Dinny,' he sez. 'There's no fool loike an owld fool, ye'll moind, an' they'll have ut away from yez.' 'They'll not!' sez Oi. 'An' Oi'll be betther fer a year av rist.' He thried to argy but Oi'd have none av ut, an' Oi put up wid th' Widdy MacShane, 'twuz half-sister to a cousin av a frind av moine Oi know'd in Brainard in nointy-sivin. Foive dollars a week Oi paid fer board an' room an' washin'—Oi'd live in style wid no thought fer expince. Oi bought me a hat an' a suit wid brass buttons t'w'd done proud to Brian Boru himsilf."
The old man paused and looked out the window. "To make a long story short, be Christmas Oi wuz toired av me bargain. Oi've lived in th' woods too long, an' Oi'll lave 'em no more. Oi stuck ut out 'til th' spring, but, what wid th' frinds Oi'd picked up to hilp me spind ut, an' th' clothes, an' th' shows ut costed me three av me clane new bills. Comin' back Oi shtopped off at Riverville, an' showed Mike Gillum the sivin Oi had lift. 'Yez done well, Dinny,' sez he. 'An' now will yez go to th' woods?' 'Oi will,' sez Oi, 'f'r Oi'm tired av ristin'. But Oi'm glad Oi wint, an' Oi don't begrudge th' money, f'r sivin is aisier thin tin to count an-nyway an' Oi've enough av ut rains f'r a year.' So Oi come back an' wuz snug as a bug in a rug, 'til ut's mebbe two wakes ago, an' snowin' that day, an' they comed a Frinchy along, an' he sez, 'Oi've a noice fat deer hangin'; ut's a matther av a couple av moile from here. Av ye'll hilp me cut um up, Oi'll give ye th' shoulders an' rib mate—f'r ut's only th' quarters Oi want.' Oi wint along an' we cut up th' deer, an' he give me th' mate an' Oi packed ut home. Whin Oi got back Oi seen somewan had be'n here. Ut wuz snowin' hard, an' th' thracks wuz drifted full loike th' wans me an' th' Frinchy made whin we started off to cut up th' deer, so Oi know'd the other had come jist afther we lift. I dropped me mate an' run in an' pulled up th' board. Th' tobaccy tin wuz impty! Th' thracks headed narth, an' Oi tuck out afther th' dirthy spalpeen, but th' snow got worse an' Oi had to turn back. Whin ut quit Oi wint to Willow River where Mike Gillum is runnin' a Syndicate crew, but he said they wuzn't none av his men gone off th' job. 'Oi'll do all Oi kin to thry an' locate th' thafe,' sez he; 'but yez sh'd put yer money in th' bank, Dinny.' Well, Oi hurd nawthin' more from him, an' this marnin' Oi wint up there ag'in. He'd found out nawthin', an' he sez how he don't think ut wuz wan av his min—so Oi comed back, an' th' nixt thing Oi knows yez two comed along—ye've th' whole story now, an' ye'll know av th' rainy days comes, Dinny O'Sullivan's a-goin' to git wet."
"What d'ye think of yer fine friend, Mike Gillum now?" asked Saginaw Ed, breaking a silence that had lasted while they had travelled a mile or so through the woods from Denny O'Sullivan's cabin.
"Just the same as I did before," answered Connie, without a moment's hesitation. "You don't think Mike Gillum swiped the old man's money, do you?"
Saginaw stopped in his tracks and faced the boy wrathfully. "Oh, no! I don't think he could possibly have swiped it," he said, with ponderous sarcasm. "There ain't no chanct he did—seein' as he was the only one that know'd the money was there—an' seein' how the tracks headed north—an' seein' how he denied it. It couldn't of be'n him! The old man's got his own word fer it that it wasn't."
"If those I. W. W.'s wer'n't locked up safe in jail, I'd think they got the money. I know it wasn't Mike Gillum," maintained the boy, stoutly. "If you knew Mike you wouldn't think that."
"I don't know him, an' I don't want to know him! It's enough that I know Hurley. An' anyone that would claim Hurley was crooked, I wouldn't put it beyond him to do nothin' whatever that's disreligious, an' low-down, an' onrespectable. He done it! An' him writin' like he done about Hurley, proves that he done it—an' that's all they is to it."