Don't you know him?"
"Know 'im! Well, I guess! I know 'im too d--n well. But who are you, and
what do ye want with the parson's mail?"
"Oh, I live with him now. I'm Dan, old Jim's boy. Didn't you know I was
there?"
"Ha, ha, that's a good one! To think that I should know every brat who
comes to the place."
"I'm not a brat! I'm almost a man," and Dan straightened himself up. "Give
me my mail, please; Parson John's waiting for it."
"Let 'im wait. I'm not supposed to give out mail to all the riff-raff who
comes fer it. Why doesn't he come 'imself?"
"He's busy."
"Busy! busy! Yes, I s'pose he is busy, plannin' mischief; wonderin' what
to do with Billy Fletcher's gold. How much did he git? I s'pose he gave
you some to hold yer tongue."
Farrington had no intention of uttering these last words, but his heart
was so full of anger that he hardly knew what he was saying.
Dan's eyes flashed, and his little hands suddenly doubled at his side. He
did not comprehend the meaning of these words, but he felt that his
friend, the white-headed old man, was being insulted. With him to think
was to act, and many a boy larger than himself had felt the lightning
blows of those little tense knuckles.
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