“Willard said, 'Bass, w-wish you'd find me that man. I'll give him five dollars every week for a letter like that—er—five dollars a week.'”
He paused, folded up the paper again and put it in his pocket, took out a card and handed it to Wetherell.
James G. Willard, Editor.
Newcastle Guardian.
“That's his address,” said Jethro. “Er—guess you'll know what to do with it. Er—five dollars a week—five dollars a week.”
“How did you know I wrote this article?” said Wetherell, as the card trembled between his fingers.
“K-knowed the place was Coniston seen from the 'east, knowed there wahn't any one is Brampton or Harwich could have done it—g-guessed the rest—guessed the rest.”
Wetherell could only stare at him like a man who, with the halter about his neck, has been suddenly reprieved. But Jethro Bass did not appear to be waiting for thanks. He cleared his throat, and had Wetherell not been in such a condition himself, he would actually have suspected him of embarrassment.
“Er—Wetherell?”
“Yes?”
“W-won't say nothin' about the mortgage—p-pay it when you can.”