“My good lady,” he said, “you have saved my life.”
“Well, you must ’a’ been hungry,” said the woman. “A man that’ll eat cold vittles, especially cold potato, ain’t shammin’.”
“I wish I had money to offer you——”
“Oh, never mind that; you’re welcome. Can I do anything more for you?”
“I feel sick, and sometimes, though I am a temperance man, I take whisky for my health, if you had just a sup——”
“Well, we haven’t any, and if we had I wouldn’t give you any.”
“You misjudge me, madam. You must not think I am a drinker.”
“It’s no matter what I think. You can’t get any whisky here.”
At Daneboro Tom fared better. He changed his gold piece, drank a pint of whisky, and the next day retraced his steps to old Peter’s cabin. He felt satisfied that somewhere near the cabin there was treasure concealed.