Then the king he hunched the duke private—I see him do it—and then he looked around and see the coffin,over in the corner on two chairs; so then him and the duke,with a hand across each other’s shoulder, and t’other hand to their eyes,walked slow and solemn over there, everybody dropping back to give them room,and all the talk and noise stopping, people saying “Sh!” and all the men taking their hats off and drooping their heads, so you could a heard a pin fall.And when they got there they bent over and looked in the coffin, and took one sight,and then they bust out a-crying so you could a heard them to Orleans, most;and then they put their arms around each other’s necks,and hung their chins over each other’s shoulders; and then for three minutes, or maybe four,I never see two men leak the way they done. And, mind you, everybody was doing the same;and the place was that damp I never see anything like it.Then one of them got on one side of the coffin, and t’other on t’other side,and they kneeled down and rested their foreheads on the coffin,and let on to pray all to themselves. Well,when it come to that it worked the crowd like you never see anything like it,and everybody broke down and went to sobbing right out loud—the poor girls, too; and every woman,nearly, went up to the girls, without saying a word, and kissed them, solemn, on the forehead,and then put their hand on their head, and looked up towards the sky, with the tears running down,and then busted out and went off sobbing and swabbing, and give the next woman a show. I never see anything so disgusting.
Well, by-and-by the king he gets up and comes forward a little,and works himself up and slobbers out a speech,all full of tears and flapdoodle about its being a sore trial for him and his poor brother to lose the diseased,and to miss seeing diseased alive after the long journey of four thousand mile,but it’s a trial that’s sweetened and sanctified to us by this dear sympathy and these holy tears,and so he thanks them out of his heart and out of his brother’s heart,because out of their mouths they can’t, words being too weak and cold,and all that kind of rot and slush, till it was just sickening;and then he blubbers out a pious goody-goody Amen,and turns himself loose and goes to crying fit to bust.
And the minute the words were out of his mouth somebody over in the crowd struck up the doxolojer,and everybody joined in with all their might,and it just warmed you up and made you feel as good as church letting out. Music _is_ a good thing;and after all that soul-butter and hogwash I never see it freshen up things so, and sound so honest and bully.
Then the king begins to work his jaw again,and says how him and his nieces would be glad if a few of the main principal friends of the family would take supper here with them this evening,and help set up with the ashes of the diseased;and says if his poor brother laying yonder could speak he knows who he would name,for they was names that was very dear to him, and mentioned often in his letters;and so he will name the same, to wit, as follows, vizz.:—Rev. Mr. Hobson, and Deacon Lot Hovey,and Mr. Ben Rucker, and Abner Shackleford, and Levi Bell, and Dr. Robinson, and their wives, and the widow Bartley.
Rev. Hobson and Dr. Robinson was down to the end of the town a-hunting together—that is,I mean the doctor was shipping a sick man to t’other world, and the preacher was pinting him right.Lawyer Bell was away up to Louisville on business. But the rest was on hand,and so they all come and shook hands with the king and thanked him and talked to him;and then they shook hands with the duke and didn’t say nothing,but just kept a-smiling and bobbing their heads like a passel of sapheads whilst he made all sorts of signs with his hands and said “Goo-goo—goo-goo-goo” all the time, like a baby that can’t talk.
So the king he blattered along, and managed to inquire about pretty much everybody and dog in town,by his name, and mentioned all sorts of little things that happened one time or another in the town,or to George’s family, or to Peter. And he always let on that Peter wrote him the things;but that was a lie: he got every blessed one of them out of that young flathead that we canoed up to the steamboat.
Then Mary Jane she fetched the letter her father left behind,and the king he read it out loud and cried over it.It give the dwelling-house and three thousand dollars, gold, to the girls;and it give the tanyard (which was doing a good business),along with some other houses and land (worth about seven thousand),and three thousand dollars in gold to Harvey and William,and told where the six thousand cash was hid down cellar.So these two frauds said they’d go and fetch it up, and have everything square and above-board;and told me to come with a candle. We shut the cellar door behind us,and when they found the bag they spilt it out on the floor, and it was a lovely sight,all them yaller-boys. My, the way the king’s eyes did shine!He slaps the duke on the shoulder and says:
“Oh, _this_ ain’t bully nor noth’n!Oh, no, I reckon not!Why, Bilji, it beats the Nonesuch, _don’t_ it?”
The duke allowed it did. They pawed the yaller-boys,and sifted them through their fingers and let them jingle down on the floor; and the king says:
“It ain’t no use talkin’; bein’ brothers to a rich dead man and representatives of furrin heirs that’s got left is the line for you and me,Bilge. Thish yer comes of trust’n to Providence. It’s the best way, in the long run.I’ve tried ’em all, and ther’ ain’t no better way.”
Most everybody would a been satisfied with the pile, and took it on trust; but no,they must count it. So they counts it, and it comes out four hundred and fifteen dollars short. Says the king:
“Dern him, I wonder what he done with that four hundred and fifteen dollars?”
They worried over that awhile, and ransacked all around for it. Then the duke says:
“Well, he was a pretty sick man, and likely he made a mistake—I reckon that’s the way of it.The best way’s to let it go, and keep still about it. We can spare it.”
“Oh, shucks, yes, we can _spare_ it. I don’t k’yer noth’n ’bout that—it’s the _count_ I’m thinkin’ about.We want to be awful square and open and above-board here, you know.We want to lug this h-yer money up stairs and count it before everybody—then ther’ ain’t noth’n suspicious.But when the dead man says ther’s six thous’n dollars, you know, we don’t want to—”
“Hold on,” says the duke. “Le’s make up the deffisit,” and he begun to haul out yaller-boys out of his pocket.
“It’s a most amaz’n’ good idea, duke—you _have_ got a rattlin’ clever head on you,” says the king.“Blest if the old Nonesuch ain’t a heppin’ us out agin,” and _he_ begun to haul out yaller-jackets and stack them up.
It most busted them, but they made up the six thousand clean and clear.
“Say,” says the duke, “I got another idea. Le’s go up stairs and count this money,and then take and _give it to the girls_.”
“Good land, duke, lemme hug you!It’s the most dazzling idea ’at ever a man struck.You have cert’nly got the most astonishin’ head I ever see. Oh, this is the boss dodge,ther’ ain’t no mistake ’bout it. Let ’em fetch along their suspicions now if they want to—this’ll lay ’em out. ”
When we got up-stairs everybody gethered around the table,and the king he counted it and stacked it up,three hundred dollars in a pile—twenty elegant little piles. Everybody looked hungry at it,and licked their chops. Then they raked it into the bag again,and I see the king begin to swell himself up for another speech. He says:
“Friends all, my poor brother that lays yonder has done generous by them that’s left behind in the vale of sorrers.He has done generous by these yer poor little lambs that he loved and sheltered,and that’s left fatherless and motherless. Yes,and we that knowed him knows that he would a done _more_ generous by ’em if he hadn’t ben afeard o’ woundin’ his dear William and me. Now, _wouldn’t_ he?Ther’ ain’t no question ’bout it in _my_ mind. Well, then,what kind o’ brothers would it be that ’d stand in his way at sech a time?And what kind o’ uncles would it be that ’d rob—yes,_rob_—sech poor sweet lambs as these ’at he loved so at sech a time?If I know William—and I _think_ I do—he—well, I’ll jest ask him.” He turns around and begins to make a lot of signs to the duke with his hands,and the duke he looks at him stupid and leather-headed a while;then all of a sudden he seems to catch his meaning, and jumps for the king,goo-gooing with all his might for joy, and hugs him about fifteen times before he lets up.Then the king says, “I knowed it; I reckon _that_’ll convince anybody the way _he_ feels about it.Here, Mary Jane, Susan, Joanner, take the money—take it _all_.It’s the gift of him that lays yonder, cold but joyful.”
Mary Jane she went for him, Susan and the hare-lip went for the duke,and then such another hugging and kissing I never see yet.And everybody crowded up with the tears in their eyes, and most shook the hands off of them frauds, saying all the time:
“You _dear_ good souls!—how _lovely!_—how _could_ you!”
Well, then, pretty soon all hands got to talking about the diseased again, and how good he was,and what a loss he was, and all that; and before long a big iron-jawed man worked himself in there from outside,and stood a-listening and looking, and not saying anything;and nobody saying anything to him either,because the king was talking and they was all busy listening.The king was saying—in the middle of something he’d started in on—
“—they bein’ partickler friends o’ the diseased. That’s why they’re invited here this evenin’;but tomorrow we want _all_ to come—everybody; for he respected everybody, he liked everybody,and so it’s fitten that his funeral orgies sh’d be public.”
And so he went a-mooning on and on, liking to hear himself talk,and every little while he fetched in his funeral orgies again,till the duke he couldn’t stand it no more; so he writes on a little scrap of paper, “_obsequies_,you old fool,” and folds it up, and goes to goo-gooing and reaching it over people’s heads to him.The king he reads it and puts it in his pocket, and says:
“Poor William, afflicted as he is, his _heart’s_ aluz right.Asks me to invite everybody to come to the funeral—wants me to make ’em all welcome.But he needn’t a worried—it was jest what I was at.”
Then he weaves along again, perfectly ca’m,and goes to dropping in his funeral orgies again every now and then, just like he done before.And when he done it the third time he says:
“I say orgies, not because it’s the common term,because it ain’t—obsequies bein’ the common term—but because orgies is the right term.Obsequies ain’t used in England no more now—it’s gone out. We say orgies now in England.Orgies is better, because it means the thing you’re after more exact.It’s a word that’s made up out’n the Greek _orgo_, outside, open, abroad; and the Hebrew _jeesum_,to plant, cover up; hence in_ter._ So, you see, funeral orgies is an open er public funeral.”
He was the _worst_ I ever struck. Well, the iron-jawed man he laughed right in his face.Everybody was shocked. Everybody says, “Why, _doctor!_” and Abner Shackleford says:
“Why, Robinson, hain’t you heard the news?This is Harvey Wilks.”
The king he smiled eager, and shoved out his flapper, and says:
“_Is_ it my poor brother’s dear good friend and physician?I—”
“Keep your hands off of me!” says the doctor. “_You_ talk like an Englishman, _don’t_ you?It’s the worst imitation I ever heard. _You_ Peter Wilks’s brother!You’re a fraud, that’s what you are!”
Well, how they all took on!They crowded around the doctor and tried to quiet him down,and tried to explain to him and tell him how Harvey ’d showed in forty ways that he _was_ Harvey,and knowed everybody by name, and the names of the very dogs,and begged and _begged_ him not to hurt Harvey’s feelings and the poor girl’s feelings,and all that. But it warn’t no use; he stormed right along,and said any man that pretended to be an Englishman and couldn’t imitate the lingo no better than what he did was a fraud and a liar.The poor girls was hanging to the king and crying;and all of a sudden the doctor ups and turns on _them_. He says:
“I was your father’s friend, and I’m your friend; and I warn you _as_ a friend,and an honest one that wants to protect you and keep you out of harm and trouble,to turn your backs on that scoundrel and have nothing to do with him, the ignorant tramp,with his idiotic Greek and Hebrew, as he calls it.He is the thinnest kind of an impostor—has come here with a lot of empty names and facts which he picked up somewheres,and you take them for _proofs_, and are helped to fool yourselves by these foolish friends here,who ought to know better. Mary Jane Wilks, you know me for your friend,and for your unselfish friend, too. Now listen to me;turn this pitiful rascal out—I _beg_ you to do it. Will you?”
Mary Jane straightened herself up, and my, but she was handsome!She says:
“_Here_ is my answer.” She hove up the bag of money and put it in the king’s hands, and says,“Take this six thousand dollars, and invest for me and my sisters any way you want to, and don’t give us no receipt for it.”
Then she put her arm around the king on one side,and Susan and the hare-lip done the same on the other.Everybody clapped their hands and stomped on the floor like a perfect storm,whilst the king held up his head and smiled proud. The doctor says:
“All right; I wash _my_ hands of the matter.But I warn you all that a time ’s coming when you’re going to feel sick whenever you think of this day. ” And away he went.
“All right, doctor,” says the king, kinder mocking him; “we’ll try and get ’em to send for you;” which made them all laugh, and they said it was a prime good hit.
CHAPTER XXVI.
Well, when they was all gone the king he asks Mary Jane how they was off for spare rooms,and she said she had one spare room, which would do for Uncle William,and she’d give her own room to Uncle Harvey, which was a little bigger,and she would turn into the room with her sisters and sleep on a cot;and up garret was a little cubby, with a pallet in it.The king said the cubby would do for his valley—meaning me.
So Mary Jane took us up, and she showed them their rooms, which was plain but nice.She said she’d have her frocks and a lot of other traps took out of her room if they was in Uncle Harvey’s way,but he said they warn’t. The frocks was hung along the wall,and before them was a curtain made out of calico that hung down to the floor.There was an old hair trunk in one corner, and a guitar-box in another,and all sorts of little knickknacks and jimcracks around, like girls brisken up a room with.The king said it was all the more homely and more pleasanter for these fixings,and so don’t disturb them. The duke’s room was pretty small, but plenty good enough, and so was my cubby.
That night they had a big supper, and all them men and women was there,and I stood behind the king and the duke’s chairs and waited on them,and the niggers waited on the rest. Mary Jane she set at the head of the table,with Susan alongside of her, and said how bad the biscuits was, and how mean the preserves was,and how ornery and tough the fried chickens was—and all that kind of rot,the way women always do for to force out compliments;and the people all knowed everything was tiptop,and said so—said “How _do_ you get biscuits to brown so nice?” and “Where, for the land’s sake, _did_ you get these amaz’n pickles?” and all that kind of humbug talky-talk, just the way people always does at a supper, you know.
And when it was all done me and the hare-lip had supper in the kitchen off of the leavings,whilst the others was helping the niggers clean up the things.The hare-lip she got to pumping me about England,and blest if I didn’t think the ice was getting mighty thin sometimes. She says:
“Did you ever see the king?”
“Who?William Fourth?Well, I bet I have—he goes to our church.” I knowed he was dead years ago, but I never let on.So when I says he goes to our church, she says:
“What—regular?”
“Yes—regular. His pew’s right over opposite ourn—on t’other side the pulpit.”
“I thought he lived in London?”
“Well, he does. Where _would_ he live?”
“But I thought _you_ lived in Sheffield?”
I see I was up a stump. I had to let on to get choked with a chicken bone,so as to get time to think how to get down again. Then I says:
“I mean he goes to our church regular when he’s in Sheffield. That’s only in the summer time,when he comes there to take the sea baths.”
“Why, how you talk—Sheffield ain’t on the sea.”
“Well, who said it was?”
“Why, you did.”
“I _didn’t_ nuther.”
“You did!”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“I never said nothing of the kind.”
“Well, what _did_ you say, then?”
“Said he come to take the sea _baths_—that’s what I said.”
“Well, then, how’s he going to take the sea baths if it ain’t on the sea?”
“Looky here,” I says; “did you ever see any Congress-water?”
“Yes.”
“Well, did you have to go to Congress to get it?”
“Why, no.”
“Well, neither does William Fourth have to go to the sea to get a sea bath.”
“How does he get it, then?”
“Gets it the way people down here gets Congress-water—in barrels.There in the palace at Sheffield they’ve got furnaces, and he wants his water hot.They can’t bile that amount of water away off there at the sea.They haven’t got no conveniences for it.”
“Oh, I see, now. You might a said that in the first place and saved time.”
When she said that I see I was out of the woods again, and so I was comfortable and glad. Next, she says:
“Do you go to church, too?”
“Yes—regular.”
“Where do you set?”
“Why, in our pew.”
“_Whose_ pew?”
“Why, _ourn_—your Uncle Harvey’s.”
“His’n?What does _he_ want with a pew?”
“Wants it to set in. What did you _reckon_ he wanted with it?”
“Why, I thought he’d be in the pulpit.”
Rot him, I forgot he was a preacher. I see I was up a stump again,so I played another chicken bone and got another think. Then I says:
“Blame it, do you suppose there ain’t but one preacher to a church?”
“Why, what do they want with more?”
“What!—to preach before a king?I never did see such a girl as you. They don’t have no less than seventeen.”
“Seventeen!My land!Why, I wouldn’t set out such a string as that, not if I _never_ got to glory. It must take ’em a week.”
“Shucks, they don’t _all_ of ’em preach the same day—only _one_ of’em.”
“Well, then, what does the rest of ’em do?”
“Oh, nothing much. Loll around, pass the plate—and one thing or another. But mainly they don’t do nothing.”
“Well, then, what are they _for?_”
“Why, they’re for _style_. Don’t you know nothing?”
“Well, I don’t _want_ to know no such foolishness as that. How is servants treated in England?Do they treat ’em better ’n we treat our niggers?”
“_No!_ A servant ain’t nobody there. They treat them worse than dogs.”
“Don’t they give ’em holidays, the way we do, Christmas and New Year’s week, and Fourth of July?”
“Oh, just listen!A body could tell _you_ hain’t ever been to England by that. Why, Hare-l—why, Joanna,they never see a holiday from year’s end to year’s end; never go to the circus, nor theater, nor nigger shows, nor nowheres.”
“Nor church?”
“Nor church.”
“But _you_ always went to church.”
Well, I was gone up again. I forgot I was the old man’s servant.But next minute I whirled in on a kind of an explanation how a valley was different from a common servant and _had_ to go to church whether he wanted to or not, and set with the family, on account of its being the law. But I didn’t do it pretty good, and when I got done I see she warn’t satisfied. She says:
“Honest injun, now, hain’t you been telling me a lot of lies?”
“Honest injun,” says I.
“None of it at all?”
“None of it at all. Not a lie in it,” says I.
“Lay your hand on this book and say it.”
I see it warn’t nothing but a dictionary, so I laid my hand on it and said it.So then she looked a little better satisfied, and says:
“Well, then, I’ll believe some of it; but I hope to gracious if I’ll believe the rest.”
“What is it you won’t believe, Joe?” says Mary Jane, stepping in with Susan behind her.“It ain’t right nor kind for you to talk so to him, and him a stranger and so far from his people. How would you like to be treated so?”
“That’s always your way, Maim—always sailing in to help somebody before they’re hurt.I hain’t done nothing to him. He’s told some stretchers, I reckon,and I said I wouldn’t swallow it all; and that’s every bit and grain I _did_ say.I reckon he can stand a little thing like that, can’t he?”
“I don’t care whether ’twas little or whether ’twas big; he’s here in our house and a stranger,and it wasn’t good of you to say it. If you was in his place it would make you feel ashamed;and so you oughtn’t to say a thing to another person that will make _them_ feel ashamed.”
“Why, Mam, he said—”
“It don’t make no difference what he _said_—that ain’t the thing.The thing is for you to treat him _kind_,and not be saying things to make him remember he ain’t in his own country and amongst his own folks. ”
I says to myself, _this_ is a girl that I’m letting that old reptile rob her of her money!
Then Susan _she_ waltzed in; and if you’ll believe me, she did give Hare-lip hark from the tomb!
Says I to myself, and this is _another_ one that I’m letting him rob her of her money!
Then Mary Jane she took another inning, and went in sweet and lovely again—which was her way;but when she got done there warn’t hardly anything left o’ poor Hare-lip. So she hollered.
“All right, then,” says the other girls; “you just ask his pardon.”
She done it, too; and she done it beautiful. She done it so beautiful it was good to hear;and I wished I could tell her a thousand lies, so she could do it again.
I says to myself, this is _another_ one that I’m letting him rob her of her money.And when she got through they all jest laid theirselves out to make me feel at home and know I was amongst friends.I felt so ornery and low down and mean that I says to myself, my mind’s made up; I’ll hive that money for them or bust.
So then I lit out—for bed, I said, meaning some time or another.When I got by myself I went to thinking the thing over. I says to myself,shall I go to that doctor, private, and blow on these frauds?No—that won’t do. He might tell who told him; then the king and the duke would make it warm for me.Shall I go, private, and tell Mary Jane?No—I dasn’t do it. Her face would give them a hint, sure; they’ve got the money,and they’d slide right out and get away with it.If she was to fetch in help I’d get mixed up in the business before it was done with, I judge. No;there ain’t no good way but one. I got to steal that money, somehow;and I got to steal it some way that they won’t suspicion that I done it.They’ve got a good thing here, and they ain’t a-going to leave till they’ve played this family and this town for all they’re worth,so I’ll find a chance time enough. I’ll steal it and hide it; and by-and-by,when I’m away down the river, I’ll write a letter and tell Mary Jane where it’s hid.But I better hive it tonight if I can, because the doctor maybe hasn’t let up as much as he lets on he has; he might scare them out of here yet.
So, thinks I, I’ll go and search them rooms. Upstairs the hall was dark,but I found the duke’s room, and started to paw around it with my hands;but I recollected it wouldn’t be much like the king to let anybody else take care of that money but his own self;so then I went to his room and begun to paw around there.But I see I couldn’t do nothing without a candle, and I dasn’t light one, of course.So I judged I’d got to do the other thing—lay for them and eavesdrop.About that time I hears their footsteps coming, and was going to skip under the bed;I reached for it, but it wasn’t where I thought it would be;but I touched the curtain that hid Mary Jane’s frocks,so I jumped in behind that and snuggled in amongst the gowns, and stood there perfectly still.
They come in and shut the door; and the first thing the duke done was to get down and look under the bed.Then I was glad I hadn’t found the bed when I wanted it. And yet, you know,it’s kind of natural to hide under the bed when you are up to anything private. They sets down then, and the king says:
“Well, what is it?And cut it middlin’ short, because it’s better for us to be down there a-whoopin’ up the mournin’ than up here givin’ ’em a chance to talk us over. ”
“Well, this is it, Capet. I ain’t easy; I ain’t comfortable. That doctor lays on my mind.I wanted to know your plans. I’ve got a notion, and I think it’s a sound one.”
“What is it, duke?”
“That we better glide out of this before three in the morning,and clip it down the river with what we’ve got. Specially,seeing we got it so easy—_given_ back to us, flung at our heads, as you may say,when of course we allowed to have to steal it back. I’m for knocking off and lighting out.”
That made me feel pretty bad. About an hour or two ago it would a been a little different,but now it made me feel bad and disappointed. The king rips out and says:
“What!And not sell out the rest o’ the property?March off like a passel of fools and leave eight or nine thous’n’ dollars’ worth o’ property layin’ around jest sufferin’ to be scooped in?—and all good, salable stuff, too.”
The duke he grumbled; said the bag of gold was enough,and he didn’t want to go no deeper—didn’t want to rob a lot of orphans of _everything_ they had.
“Why, how you talk!” says the king. “We sha’n’t rob ’em of nothing at all but jest this money.The people that _buys_ the property is the suff’rers;because as soon ’s it’s found out ’at we didn’t own it—which won’t be long after we’ve slid—the sale won’t be valid,and it’ll all go back to the estate. These yer orphans ’ll git their house back agin,and that’s enough for _them;_ they’re young and spry, and k’n easy earn a livin’._They_ ain’t a-goin to suffer. Why, jest think—there’s thous’n’s and thous’n’s that ain’t nigh so well off.Bless you, _they_ ain’t got noth’n’ to complain of.”
Well, the king he talked him blind; so at last he give in, and said all right,but said he believed it was blamed foolishness to stay, and that doctor hanging over them. But the king says:
“Cuss the doctor!What do we k’yer for _him?_ Hain’t we got all the fools in town on our side?And ain’t that a big enough majority in any town?”
So they got ready to go down stairs again. The duke says:
“I don’t think we put that money in a good place.”
That cheered me up. I’d begun to think I warn’t going to get a hint of no kind to help me. The king says:
“Why?”
“Because Mary Jane ’ll be in mourning from this out;and first you know the nigger that does up the rooms will get an order to box these duds up and put ’em away;and do you reckon a nigger can run across money and not borrow some of it?”
“Your head’s level agin, duke,” says the king;and he comes a-fumbling under the curtain two or three foot from where I was.I stuck tight to the wall and kept mighty still, though quivery;and I wondered what them fellows would say to me if they catched me;and I tried to think what I’d better do if they did catch me.But the king he got the bag before I could think more than about a half a thought,and he never suspicioned I was around. They took and shoved the bag through a rip in the straw tick that was under the feather-bed,and crammed it in a foot or two amongst the straw and said it was all right now,because a nigger only makes up the feather-bed,and don’t turn over the straw tick only about twice a year,and so it warn’t in no danger of getting stole now.
But I knowed better. I had it out of there before they was half-way down stairs.I groped along up to my cubby, and hid it there till I could get a chance to do better.I judged I better hide it outside of the house somewheres,because if they missed it they would give the house a good ransacking: I knowed that very well.Then I turned in, with my clothes all on; but I couldn’t a gone to sleep if I’d a wanted to,I was in such a sweat to get through with the business.By-and-by I heard the king and the duke come up;so I rolled off my pallet and laid with my chin at the top of my ladder,and waited to see if anything was going to happen. But nothing did.
So I held on till all the late sounds had quit and the early ones hadn’t begun yet; and then I slipped down the ladder.
CHAPTER XXVII.
I crept to their doors and listened; they was snoring. So I tiptoed along,and got down stairs all right. There warn’t a sound anywheres.I peeped through a crack of the dining-room door,and see the men that was watching the corpse all sound asleep on their chairs.The door was open into the parlor, where the corpse was laying,and there was a candle in both rooms. I passed along, and the parlor door was open;but I see there warn’t nobody in there but the remainders of Peter; so I shoved on by;but the front door was locked, and the key wasn’t there.Just then I heard somebody coming down the stairs, back behind me.I run in the parlor and took a swift look around,and the only place I see to hide the bag was in the coffin. The lid was shoved along about a foot,showing the dead man’s face down in there, with a wet cloth over it, and his shroud on.I tucked the money-bag in under the lid, just down beyond where his hands was crossed,which made me creep, they was so cold, and then I run back across the room and in behind the door.