When me thieving had
gone far, an' near its goal, the bank burned. As God's me witness
I'd no hand in that. I weighed the chances an' expected to go to
prison--well, say for ten years, at least. I must suffer in order
to save the boy, an' was ready for the sacrifice. Free again, I
would help him to return the money. That burning o' the records
shut off the prison, but opened the fire o' hell upon me. Half a
year had gone by, an' not a word from the kidnappers. I took a
note to the place appointed,--a hollow log in the woods, a bit east
of a certain bridge on the public highway twenty miles out o' the
city,--but no answer,--not a word,--not a line up to this moment.
They must have relinquished hope an' put the boy to death.
"'In that old trunk there under the bed is a dusty, moulding,
cursed heap o' money done up in brown paper an' tied with a string.
It is a hundred thousand dollars, an' the price o' me soul.'
"'An' thou in rags an' a garret,' said I.
"'An' I in rags an' hell,' said he, sor, looking down at himself.
"He drew out the trunk an' showed me the money, stacks of it,
dirty, an' stinking o' damp mould.
"'There it is,' said he, 'every dollar I stole is there.
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