“Will you tear up that mortgage?”
“Yes, oh, yes! Give it to me and you will see.”
“Not so fast,” said Tubby, tearing off the bit of paper with the thumb print on it; “I need this. Now, then, tear the rest up.”
“You won’t prosecute if I do?” wailed the groveling wretch.
“No,” promised Paul; “we’ve no wish to be hard on you, badly as you have treated us.”
Hunt, with trembling hands, tore the paper into tiny shreds.
“You’d better burn those,” said Tubby, turning to Paul. “Now, then, Mr. Hunt, you had better get out of here,” he went on to the unmasked rascal. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, and thank you,” rejoined the humbled, quaking man in a trembling tone. He started for the gate. As he reached it a boyish figure came swinging along the street; it was Freeman Hunt.
“Why, hullo, dad,” he said, as he stopped, disdaining to notice the boys; “how ill you look. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, my boy. Perhaps the sun is a little warm,” was the reply. “I have a headache.”