“Yes,” said Mr. Eldridge—“knew of just such a case.”
“Very well,” said Eli; “how does he find his way home?”
“Don’t know,” said Mr. Eldridge; “always has been a standing mystery to me.”
“Well,” said Eli, “mark my words. There’s such a thing as arguin’, and there’s such a thing as knowin’ outright; and when you’ll tell me how that cat inquires his way home, I’ll tell you how I know John Wood ain’t guilty.”
This made a certain sensation, and Eli’s stock went up.
An old, withered man rapped on the table.
“That’s so!” he said; “and there’s other sing’lar things! How is it that a sea-farin’ man, that’s dyin’ to home, will allers die on the ebb-tide? It never fails, but how does it happen? Tell me that! And there’s more ways than one of knowin’ things, too!”
“I know that man ain’t guilty,” said Eli.
“Hark ye!” said a dark old man with a troubled face, rising and pointing his finger toward Eli. “Know, you say? I knew, wunst. I knew that my girl, my only child, was good. One night she went off with a married man that worked in my store, and stole my money—and where is she now?” And then he added, “What I know is, that every man hes his price. I hev mine, and you hev yourn!”