“Oh, Alfred!” she called, “come out, quick! I've got news fer you—big, big news!”
She heard him grumbling as he emptied some ears of corn into the trough of the stall containing Alan' s favorite horse, and then with a growl he emerged into the starlight.
“That fool nigger only give Alan's hoss six ears o' corn,” he fumed. “I know, beca'se I counted the cobs; the hoss had licked the trough clean, an' gnawed the ends o' the cobs. The idea o' starvin' my stock right before my—”
“Oh, Alfred, what do you think has happened?” his wife broke in. “We've got the bank money back! Pole Baker managed somehow to get it. He's goin' to tell about it now. Come on in!”
Bishop closed the door behind him; he fumbled with the chain and padlock for an instant, then he moved towards her, his lip hanging, his eyes protruding.
“I 'll believe my part o' that when—”
“But,” she cried, opening the gate for him to pass through, “the money's thar in the house on the table; it's been counted. I say it's thar! Don't you believe it?”
The old man moved through the gate mechanically. He paused to fasten it with the iron ring over the two posts. But after that he seemed to lose the power of locomotion. He stood facing her, his features working.
“I 'll believe my part o' that cat-an'-bull story when I see—”
“Well, come in the house, then,” she cried. “You kin lay yore hands on it an' count it. It's a awful big pile, an' nothin' less than fifty-dollar bills.”