Tank Dysart lost no time in his investigations and he had the courage of his convictions. He did not scruple to call Peter Petrie to his face a mail-robber.
“Ye tuk a package deposited in the United States' mail and converted it to your own use,” he vociferated.
“'Twar neither stamped nor addressed,” old Petrie gruffly contended, albeit obviously disconcerted.
Dysart even sought to induce the postmaster to send a complaint of the rider to the postal authorities.
“I got too much respec' fur my job,” replied that worthy, jocosely eying Tank across the counter of the store. “I ain't goin' ter let on ter the folks in Washington that we send babies about in the mail-bags hyar in the mountings.”
The social acquaintance of the little man had necessarily been rather limited, but one day a neighbor, attracted to the Petrie cabin by idle curiosity concerning the waif robbed from the mails, gazed upon him for one astonished instant and then proclaimed his identity.
“Nare Gilhooley should ever cross Storm Mounting, 'cordin ter yer saying Petey, an' hyar ye hev been totin' Boss Gilhooley 's gran'son back an' forth across Old Stormy, an' all yer spare time ye spend on yer hands an' knees bar kin' like a dog jes' ter pleasure him.”
Peter Petrie changed countenance suddenly. His square, bristly, grim jaw hardened and stiffened, so dear to him were all his stubborn convictions and grizzly, ancient feuds. But he bestirred himself to cause information to be conveyed to Bruce Gilhooley of his son's whereabouts for he readily suspected that the family had fled to Minervy Sue's in Georgia. Peter Petrie sustained in this act of conscience a grievous wrench, for it foreshadowed parting with the choice missive filched from the mail-bag, but he was not unmindful of the anguish and bereavement of the mother, and somehow the thought was peculiarly coercive at this season.
“I don't want ter even up with King Herod, now, sure!” he averred to himself one night as he sat late over the embers, reviewing his plans all made. He thought much in these lone hours as He heard the wind speed past, the trees crack under their weight of snow, and noted through the tiny window the glister of a great star of a supernal lustre, high above the pines, what a freight of joy the tidings of this child would bear to the bleeding hearts of his kindred. Albeit so humble, the parallel must needs arise suggesting the everlasting joy the existence of another Child had brought to the souls of all kindreds, all peoples. “Peace, peace,” he reiterated, as the red coals crumbled and the gray ash spread; “Peace an' good-will!”
The words seemed to epitomize all religion, all value, all hope' and somehow they so dwelt in his mind that the next day he was moved to add a personal message to old Boss Gilhooley in sending the more important information to Bruce.