“I will tell you nothing, unless you let me go to my father,” said the peddler, resolutely.
His persecutor raised his arm with a malicious sneer, and was about to execute his threat, when one of his companions checked him.
“What would you do?” he said. “You surely forget the reward. Tell us where are your goods, and you shall go to your father.”
Birch complied instantly, and a man was dispatched in quest of the booty; he soon returned, throwing the bundle on the floor, swearing it was as light as feathers.
“Aye,” cried the leader, “there must be gold somewhere for what it did contain. Give us your gold, Mr. Birch; we know you have it; you will not take continental, not you.”
“You break your faith,” said Harvey.
“Give us your gold,” exclaimed the other, furiously, pricking the
peddler with his bayonet until the blood followed his pushes in streams.
At this instant a slight movement was heard in the adjoining room, and
Harvey cried,—
“Let me—let me go to my father, and you shall have all.”
“I swear you shall go then,” said the Skinner.
“Here, take the trash,” cried Birch, as he threw aside the purse, which he had contrived to conceal, notwithstanding the change in his garments.