“Only ten dollars!” he muttered. “There ought to have been a pile of these yellow boys. Perhaps there are more somewhere.”
Meanwhile he slipped the two coins into his vest pocket. It was not much, but it was more than he had had in his possession for months.
He continued his search, but failed to discover any more money. He felt indignant. That a miser should have but a paltry ten dollars in his trunk was very discreditable.
“He must have some more somewhere,” Burns reflected.
It occurred to him that there might be hoards hidden under the floor, or in the immediate neighborhood of the cabin. But it was night, and there would be no profit in pursuing the search now.
“To-morrow,” he reflected, “the boy will be off, making preparations for buryin’ the old man, and then I can make another visit.”
He closed the lid of the trunk, and with a general glance to see if there was anything more worth taking he rose to his feet and prepared to leave the room.
Just at this moment Ernest, who was probably dreaming of the old man, spoke in his sleep.
“Uncle Peter,” he murmured.
The tramp stood still, apprehensive that Ernest would open his eyes and detect his presence. But the boy did not speak again.