“What was it ye lost?” asked Uncle Arad, with perhaps a momentary thought that, if it was of value and had been lost on his farm, he might be able to find it himself.
“Nothin’ but a piece of paper.”
“Find it?”
“Not me. Must ha’ blowed away. Howsomever, that ain’t ter the p’int. It’s funny yer nevvy never tol’ erbout meetin’ me.”
Old Arad was silent for a minute.
“I wish ye hadn’t come ’round here, fillin’ up his head with fool notions,” he grumbled. “Seein’ you must be what set him up ter leavin’ so sudden.”
“Goin’ to leave ye, is he?” asked the sailor quickly.
“He thinks he is,” returned the farmer, with a snarl. “Th’ little upstart! But I’ll l’arn him who’s who, now I tell ye? Goin’ ter New York, is he? Wal, I reckon not.”
“To New York? What’s he goin’ there fur? I sh’d think ye’d want him right here on th’ farm,” said the sailor, with a cunning smile.
“So I do—an’ right here is where he’s goin’ ter stay,” declared Uncle Arad wrathfully. “I’m er-goin’ down ter Square Holt’s ter see erbout it now. I’m either goin’ ter hev him bound ter me till he’s twenty-one, ’r git p’inted him gardeen. Then, I reckon he won’t talk no more erbout runnin’ off ter New York.”