“Oh, you expect me to spend all my time working for my support, do you? No, I am not going out in the boat. I am going to the village.”
“To the tavern, I suppose?”
“And suppose I am going to the tavern,” repeated the fisherman in a defiant tone, “have you got anything to say against it?”
“I have a great deal to say, but it won’t do any good.”
“That’s where you are right.”
John Trafton left the cabin, but he did not immediately take the road to the village.
First of all he thought he would look round a little and see if he could not discover the hiding place of the little sum which his nephew had concealed.
He walked about the cabin in various directions, examining carefully to see if anywhere the ground had been disturbed.
In one or two places he thought he detected signs of disturbance, and, bending over, scooped up the loose dirt, but, fortunately for our hero, he was on a false scent and discovered nothing.
He was not a very patient man, and the fresh disappointment—for his hopes had been raised in each case—made him still more angry.