“Poor Hank, I think he was right. He has not long to live, I’m afraid,” said Bill Bender, as they were strolling down the road leading to the station.
“If he should die before we get the money,” said Jack, in a low voice, “then we would not have to divide it. It would be all ours.”
“Yes, if he isn’t giving us a fairy tale,” said Bill Bender. “That story of his about how he and another fellow—a tramp he met—broke into a post office and robbed it of that money sounds rather fishy to me. What would all that money be doing in a country post office?”
“He explained that,” said Jack; “it was in Montana and the money was deposited in the post office safe to pay off the miners at a copper mine not far off. It was the only safe place they could put it in that lawless country.”
“They got wind of it from overhearing the postmaster telling a friend about it, didn’t they?” asked Bill.
“That was the way Hank tells it. His tramp friend made a mixture of some stuff Hank called ‘soup’ and squirted it into the cracks of the safe door with an oil can. Then they blew off the door and escaped.”
“I’ll bet Hank is mad with himself for getting too scared to take it with him when he left the wreck,” said Bill.
“I’ll bet he is,” agreed Jack carelessly; “but that is not our funeral.”
That evening there was a consultation at Stonington Hunt’s home. Jack and Bill related what they had heard from Hank and exhibited the map. Stonington Hunt seemed overjoyed. Rising from the table, he went to the door and looked out into the night. It was still and calm, one of those breathless, starry nights that come in early spring.
“Well, when will we take a trip out there?” he asked, coming back to his seat. “It looks to-night as if we’d have a perfect day to-morrow. What do you say if we make a try for it, then?”