“The young rascal!” he muttered. “He deserves to be flogged for giving me so much trouble.”
From the window of the cabin Mrs. Trafton saw what her husband was about and she was very much afraid he would succeed. She could not help—painful as it was—regarding with contempt a man who would stoop to such pitiful means to obtain money to gratify his diseased appetite.
“If I thought my wife knew where this money is I’d have it out of her,” muttered the fisherman with a dark look at the cabin, “but likely the boy didn’t tell her. I’ll have to have some dealings with him shortly. He shall learn that he cannot defy me.”
John Trafton, giving up the search, took his way to the village, and, as a matter of course, started directly for the tavern.
He entered the barroom and called for a drink.
Mr. Jones did not show his usual alacrity in waiting upon him.
“Trafton,” said he, “where is that dollar you promised to pay me this morning?”
“Haven’t got it,” answered the fisherman, rather embarrassed. “I’ll bring it to-morrow morning.”
“Then to-morrow morning you may call for a drink.”
“You ain’t going back on me, Mr. Jones?” asked John Trafton in alarm.