At half-past eight, when it had grown almost dark, Isaac descended the hill. John opened the door to his knock.
"Good evenin', Isaac. Yer'll take it, will yer?"
"If you can't do nothin' better with it," said Isaac, unwillingly.
"But in gineral I'm not partial on keeping other folk's money."
John liked him all the better for his reluctance.
"It'll give yer no trouble," he said. "You lock it up, an' it'll be all safe. Now, will yer lend a hand?"
Isaac stepped to the door, looked up the lane, and saw that all was quiet. Then he came back, and the two men raised the box.
As they crossed the threshold, however, the door of the next cottage—which belonged to Watson, the policeman—opened suddenly. John, in his excitement, was so startled that he almost dropped his end of the box.
"Why, Bolderfield," said Watson's cheery voice, "what have you got there? Do you want a hand?"
"No, I don't—thank yer kindly," said John in agitation. "An', if you please, Muster Watson, don't yer say nothin' to nobody."
The burly policeman looked from John to Isaac, then at the box. John's hoard was notorious, and the officer of the law understood.