An' then I dream it has caught fire beneath me an' I am
burning raw in the flame.'"
The tinker paused again, crossing the room and watching the swing
of a pendulum.
"Boy, boy," said he, returning to his chair, "think' o' that
complaining, immovable heap lying there like the blood of a murder.
An' thy reader must feel the toil an' sweat an' misery an' despair
that is in a great sum, an' how it all presses on the heart o' him
that gets it wrongfully.
"'Well, sor,' the poor fellow continued, 'now an' then I met those
had known me, an' reports o' me poverty went home. An' those dear
to me sent money, the sight o' which filled me with a mighty
sickness, an' I sent it back to them. Long ago, thank God! they
ceased to think me a thief, but only crazy. Tell me, man, what
shall I do with the money? There be those living I have to
consider, an' those dead, an' those unborn.'
"'Hide it,' said I, 'an' go to thy work an' God give thee counsel.'"
Man and boy rose from the table and drew up to the little stove.
"Now, boy," said the clock tinker, leaning toward him with knitted
brows, "consider this poor thief who suffered so for his friends.
Think o' these good words, 'Greater love hath no man than this,
that he lay down his life for his friends.
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