“I dunno ’s I ever see one,” she said, “but I s’pose I do. They’re agin the law, ain’t they?”
“The’s a number o’ things that’s agin the law,” remarked David dryly.
“Wa’al?” ejaculated Mrs. Bixbee after a moment of waiting.
“Wa’al,” said David, “the’ ain’t much to tell, but it’s plain I don’t git no peace till you git it out of me. It was like this: The young feller’s took holt everywhere else right off, but handlin’ the money bothered him consid’able at fust. It was slow work, an’ I c’d see it myself; but he’s gettin’ the hang on’t now. Another thing I expected he’d run up agin was count’fits. The’ ain’t so very many on ’em round nowadays, but the’ is now an’ then one. He allowed to me that he was liable to get stuck at fust, an’ I reckoned he would. But I never said nuthin’ about it, nor ast no questions until today; an’ this afternoon I come in to look ’round, an’ I says to him, ‘What luck have you had with your money? Git any bad?’ I says. ‘Wa’al,’ he says, colorin’ up a little, ‘I don’t know how many I may have took in an’ paid out agin without knowin’ it,’ he says, ‘but the’ was a couple sent back from New York out o’ that package that went down last Friday.’ ”
“ ‘What was they?’ I says.
“ ‘A five an’ a ten,’ he says.
“ ‘Where be they?’ I says.
“ ‘They’re in the draw there—they’re ruther int’restin’ objects of study,’ he says, kind o’ laughin’ on the wrong side of his mouth.
“ ‘Countin’ ’em in the cash?’ I says, an’ with that he kind o’ reddened up agin. ‘No, sir,’ he says, ‘I charged ’em up to my own account, an’ I’ve kept ’em to compare with.’
“ ‘You hadn’t ought to done that,’ I says.
“ ‘You think I ought to ’a’ put ’em in the fire at once?’ says he.
“ ‘No,’ I says, ‘that wa’n’t what I meant. Why didn’t you mix ’em up with the other money, an’ let ’em go when you was payin’ out? Anyways,’ I says, ‘you charge ’em up to profit an’ loss if you’re goin’ to charge ’em to anythin’, an’ let me have ’em,’ I says.
“ ‘What’ll you do with ’em?’ he says to me, kind o’ shuttin’ his jaws together.
“ ‘I’ll take care on ’em,’ I says. ‘They mayn’t be good enough to send down to New York,’ I says, ‘but they’ll go around here all right—jest as good as any other,’ I says, ‘long ’s you keep ’em movin’.’ ”
“David Harum!” cried Polly, who, though not quite comprehending some of the technicalities of detail, was fully alive to the turpitude of the suggestion. “I hope to gracious he didn’t think you was in earnest. Why, s’pose they was passed around, wouldn’t somebody git stuck with ’em in the long run? You know they would.” Mrs. Bixbee occasionally surprised her brother with unexpected penetration, but she seldom got much recognition of it.
“I see by the paper,” he remarked, “that the’ was a man died in Pheladelphy one day last week,” which piece of barefaced irrelevancy elicited no notice from Mrs. Bixbee.
“What more did he say?” she demanded.
“Wa’al,” responded Mr. Harum with a laugh, “he said that he didn’t see why I should be a loser by his mistakes, an’ that as fur as the bills was concerned they belonged to him, an’ with that,” said the narrator, “Mister Man gits ’em out of the draw an’ jest marches into the back room an’ puts the dum things int’ the fire.”
“He done jest right,” declared Aunt Polly, “an’ you know it, don’t ye now?”
“Wa’al,” said David, “f’m his standpoint—f’m his standpoint, I guess he did, an’,” rubbing his chin with two fingers of his left hand, “it’s a putty dum good standpoint too. I’ve ben lookin’,” he added reflectively, “fer an honest man fer quite a number o’ years, an’ I guess I’ve found him; yes’m, I guess I’ve found him.”
“An’ be you goin’ to let him lose that fifteen dollars?” asked the practical Polly, fixing her brother with her eyes.
“Wa’al,” said David, with a short laugh, “what c’n I do with such an obst’nit critter ’s he is? He jest backed into the britchin’, an’ I couldn’t do nothin’ with him.” Aunt Polly sat over her sewing for a minute or two without taking a stitch.
“I’m sorry you done it,” she said at last.
“I dunno but I did make ruther a mess of it,” admitted Mr. Harum.
XVII
It was the 23rd of December, and shortly after the closing hour. Peleg had departed and our friend had just locked the vault when David came into the office and around behind the counter.
“Be you in any hurry?” he asked.
John said he was not, whereupon Mr. Harum hitched himself up onto a high office stool, with his heels on the spindle, and leaned sideways upon the desk, while John stood facing him with his left arm upon the desk.
“John,” said David, “do ye know the Widdo’ Cullom?”
“No” said John, “but I know who she is—a tall, thin woman, who walks with a slight stoop and limp. I noticed her and asked her name because there was something about her looks that attracted my attention—as though at some time she might have seen better days.”
“That’s the party,” said David. “She has seen better days, but she’s eat an’ drunk sorro’ mostly fer goin’ on thirty year, an’ darned little else good share o’ the time, I reckon.”
“She has that appearance certainly,” said John.
“Yes sir,” said David, “she’s had a putty tough time, the widdo’ has, an’ yet,” he proceeded after a momentary pause, “the’ was a time when the Culloms was some o’ the kingpins o’ this hull region. They used to own quarter o’ the county, an’
