“We have been at it, off and on, all day,” said Miller, with a low laugh. “The truth is, it makes me madder than anything I ever encountered.”
“Do you know why?” asked Abner, seriously, just as Pole Baker came through the dining-room and leaned against the door-jamb facing them. “It's beca'se”—nodding a greeting to Pole along with the others—“it's beca'se you know in reason that he's got that money.”
“Oh, I wouldn't say that,” protested Miller, in the tone of a man of broad experience in worldly affairs. “I wouldn't say that.”
“Well, I would, an' do,” said Abner, in the full tone of decision. “I know he's got it!”
“Well, yo' re wrong thar, Uncle Ab,” said Pole, striding forward and sinking into a chair. “You've got as good jedgment as any man I ever run across. I thought like you do once. I'd 'a' tuck my oath that he had it about two hours by sun this evenin', but I kin swear he hain't a cent of it now.”
“Do you mean that, Pole?” Abner stared across the wide hearth at him fixedly.
“He hain't got it, Uncle Ab.” Pole was beginning to smile mysteriously. “He did have it, but he hain't got it now. I got it from 'im, blast his ugly pictur'!”
“You got it?” gasped Daniel. “You?”
“Yes. I made up my mind he had it, an' it deviled me so much that I determined to have it by hook or crook, ef it killed me, or put me in hock the rest o' my life.” Pole rose and took a packet wrapped in brown paper from under his rough coat and laid it on the table near Alan. “God bless you, old boy,” he said, “thar's yore money! It's all thar. I counted it. It's in fifties an' hundreds.”
Breathlessly, and with expanded eyes, Alan broke the string about the packet and opened it.