Lammy sank down all in a heap on a pile of straw, his eyes closed and his fist clutching the little bundle like a vice. It was several minutes before he could steady himself sufficiently to part the tightly twisted roll and count his treasure, which was so compact that he had to use great care. Fortunately the oil paper had kept the money dry in spite of the bath in the river, in addition to a bit of cork that had been rammed tightly into the spout, but which Lammy had not noticed as it dropped out at the first chop.
At last a bill peeled from the roll. Lammy smoothed it out, and rubbed his eyes. Could it be? He had never seen a bank bill for a larger sum than twenty dollars before, but five hundred was printed on this. Then he fell to work in earnest, and after many stops to moisten his fingers, twelve of the green, damp-smelling bits of paper lay spread upon the barn floor, while Lammy was saying over to himself, “Twelve times five are sixty—sixty hundred dollars—ten into sixty six times—six thousand dollars! Oh, mother—Bird—the fruit farm!” he fairly shouted. This then was what Aunt Jimmy’s will had meant, after all.
Gathering the bills into his grimy handkerchief, blackened by polishing the tea-pot, he buttoned them inside his shirt and rushed into the house at the moment his mother was getting out of the chaise and bringing in the week’s supply of groceries, for which she had traded her eggs.
His father having come home from the wood lot, took the horse to the barn, fed and bedded him immediately,—for old Graylocks never went fast enough to become heated,—and then came to the kitchen sink to make his toilet for supper.
Lammy sat waiting his time by the stove with his feet in the oven door, trying to suppress the shivers that ran through him. Would his mother ever put the things away and stop bustling? They could not have supper until late that night, for the shop where his brothers worked was running over time, and they would not be home before seven.
Mrs. Lane put the potatoes on to fry, arranged the steak in the broiler (she was the only woman in Laurelville who did not fry her meat), and then sat down to rest, keeping one eye upon the clock. Presently she caught sight of Lammy’s face, and promptly jumped up again to grab one of his hands and ask anxiously: “Be you feelin’ sick, Lammy Lane? Your hands is frogs and your cheeks hot coals. I do hope and pray it ain’t goin’ to be a fever spell o’ any kind.”
“Spell be blowed!” said Joshua, who was now seated by the lamp, enjoying his weekly paper. “He’s been a-traipsin’ round all day among them soggy marshes that fairly belches chills in fall o’ the year, on a snack o’ cold food. What he needs is a lining o’ hot vittles; likewise do I.”
But Lammy had left the stove and stood by the table, his hands clasped tightly, and such a strange expression on his face that both his parents were startled.
“I ain’t sick—that is, not much,” he began, “though I’m awfully hungry, but I’ve got something to tell out first.”
Then he began slowly, and told about his visit to Old Lucky and his search for bullet material.