“And I will send up another supply of provisions,” said Mr. Warren.
Joe thanked his employer, bade him good-night, and led the way out of the yard.
For a time he and his party walked along in silence, and then Silas, who began to have a vague idea that he had been imposed upon in some way, broke out, fiercely:
“What did old man Warren mean by saying that if I didn’t get all my money by the time spring comes, he would advance enough to set me up in business?” Silas almost shouted. “Looks to me like he’d ’p’inted himself my guardeen, and that he means to keep a tight grip on them twenty-five hundred, so’t I can’t spend it to suit myself. That’s what I think he means to do, dog-gone the luck!”
Joe thought so, too, and he was glad of it. If that was Mr. Warren’s intention, Joe’s mother would be likely to reap some benefit from the reward; otherwise, she would not.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
EIGHT GOOD RIDDLES.
Feet have they, but they walk not—stoves.
Eyes have they, but they see not—potatoes.