"By godfreys mighty, I believe you do know where 'tis,
Shavin's! You ain't gettin' any of it, are you? You ain't
dividin' up with the blasted jailbird?"
Jed was very pale. His voice shook as he essayed to speak.
"Wh-what jailbird?" he faltered. "What do you mean? What--what
are you talkin' about, Phin?"
"'What are you talkin' about, Phin?' God sakes, hear him, will
you! All right, I'll tell you what I'm talkin' about. I'm talkin'
about Sam Hunniwell's pet, his new bookkeeper up there to the bank.
I'm talkin' about that stuck-up, thievin' hypocrite of a Charlie
Phillips, that's who I'm talkin' about. I called him a jailbird,
didn't I? Well, he is. He's served his term in the Connecticut
State's prison for stealin'. And I know it."
Jed groaned aloud. Here it was at last. The single hair had
parted and the sword had fallen. And now, of all times, now! He
made a pitiful attempt at denial.
"It ain't so," he protested.
"Oh, yes, it is so. Six or eight weeks ago--in January 'twas--
there was a drummer in my store sellin' a line of tools and he was
lookin' out of the window when this Phillips cuss went by with Maud
Hunniwell, both of 'em struttin' along as if common folks, honest
folks, was dirt under their feet. And when this drummer see 'em he
swore right out loud. 'Why,' says he, 'that's Charlie Phillips, of
Middleford, ain't it?' 'His name's Phillips and he comes from
Connecticut somewheres,' says I.
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