It was evident, even to the squire, that Harry had something of importance to say; and he involuntarily paused to hear it.
"I have found your pocketbook, squire, and—"
"Give it to me, and I won't touch you," cried the overseer, eagerly.
It was clear that the loss of his pocketbook had produced a salutary impression on the squire's mind. He loved money, and the punishment was more than he could bear.
"I was walking along here, last night, when I struck my foot against something. I picked it up, and found it was a pocketbook. I haven't opened it. Here it is;" and Harry handed him his lost treasure.
"By gracious!" exclaimed he, after he had assured himself that the contents of the pocketbook had not been disturbed. "That is more than ever I expected of you, Master Harry West."
"I mean to be honest," replied Harry, proudly.
"Perhaps you do. I told you, Harry, I wouldn't touch you; and I won't," continued the squire. "You may go."
The overseer was amazed. He had come to Boston with the intention of catching Harry, cost what it might,—he meant to charge the expense to the town; but the recovery of his money had warmed his heart, and banished the malice he cherished toward the boy.
Squire Walker volunteered some excellent advice for the guidance of the little pilgrim, who, he facetiously observed, had now no one to look after his manners and morals—manners first, and morals afterwards. He must be very careful and prudent, and he wished him well. Harry, however, took this wholesome counsel as from whom it came, and was not very deeply impressed by it.