He made no direct reply, but unfolded the newspaper in his hand, and then
Wetherell saw that it was only a clipping.
"H-happened to run across this in a newspaper—if this hain't this county, I wahn't born and raised here. If it hain't Coniston Mountain about seven o'clock of a June evening, I never saw Coniston Mountain. Er—listen to this."
Whereupon he read, with a feeling which Wetherell had not supposed he possessed, an extract: and as the storekeeper listened his blood began to run wildly. At length Jethro put down the paper without glancing at his companion.
"There's somethin' about that that fetches you spinnin' through the air," he said slowly. "Sh-showed it to Jim Willard, editor of the Newcastle Guardian. Er—what do you think he said?"
"I don't know," said Wetherell, in a low voice.
"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.