"Found the devil!" exclaimed Zed, growing really ill-tempered at being thus coolly roasted by his old companion.
"For Heaven's sake, take care, Zed; or we may find him, with a witness, in this queer place, and at this queer time o'night!" rejoined the fiddler; "but what may you be thinking about, after all, Zed?"
"Why, I was thinking we might cover up this hole, so that no notice would be taken of it, and then come and finish the job another time," replied Zed, who felt so much ashamed of what pain compelled him to say, that he could with difficulty get through his speech.
"Come, now, sit you down a bit, Zed," said Phil, in a tone of hearty kindness, that always came over Zed's more boisterous nature with the power of a sweet lull after a squall,—"sit you down a bit, and let's have a bit o'talk, while you rest yourself, for I'm sure your old bones must ache with pain and weariness. Now, I say, Zed, just tell me, will you, what would you do with this gold if you found it?"
"Do with it!" exclaimed Zed, staring at the fiddler, though the fiddler could not stare at him; "what would I do with it, Phil?"
"Ay, what would you do with it? Are you tired of the old boat, after we've cruised in her so many long years?"
"Tired of her! God forbid!" answered Zed, with warmth rendered ludicrous by his insobriety; "no, Phil! you and I will never forsake the old boat until our own poor old timbers fall fairly in pieces!"
"I thought you could not be thinking about that," said Phil; "but what, then, I say, Zed,—what could you contrive to do with this gold, if you found it?"
"We could comfort the hearts of poor Dick Toller's motherless and fatherless children, and poor Bob Wilson's and Joe Martin's widows with it, you know, Phil," answered the old fisherman.
"God bless your old heart, Zed!" cried Phil, grasping his old comrade's hand, while his voice faltered with deep emotion, "that's spoken just like you! But I tell you, Zed, it is but a wild scheme to be killing yourself with trying to find this gold."