“Well, what be ye goin’ to tell old Belcher, anyway?” inquired Jim.

“I doubt whether I shall tell him anything.  I have no intention of telling him that Mr. Benedict is here, and I do not wish to tell him a lie.  I have intended to tell him that in all my journey to Sevenoaks I did not find the object of my search, and that Jim Fenton declared that but one pauper had ever come into the woods and died there.”

“That’s the truth,” said Jim.  “Benedict ain’t no pauper, nor hain’t been since he left the poor-house.”

“If he knows about old Tilden,” said Yates, “and I’m afraid he does, he’ll know that I’m on the wrong scent.  If he doesn’t know about him, he’ll naturally conclude that the dead man was Mr. Benedict.  That will answer his purpose.”

“Old Belcher ain’t no fool,” said Jim.

“Well,” said Yates, “why doesn’t Mr. Benedict come out like a man and claim his rights?  That would relieve me, and settle all the difficulties of the case.”

Benedict had nothing to say for this, for there was what he felt to be a just reproach in it.

“It’s the way he’s made,” replied Jim—­“leastways, partly.  When a man’s ben hauled through hell by the har, it takes ’im a few days to git over bein’ dizzy an’ find his legs ag’in; an’ when a man sells himself to old Belcher, he mustn’t squawk an’ try to git another feller to help ’im out of ‘is bargain.  Ye got into’t, an’ ye must git out on’t the best way ye can.”

“What would you have me do?” inquired Yates.

“I want to have ye sw’ar, an’ sign a Happy David.”

“A what?”

“A Happy David.  Ye ain’t no lawyer if ye don’t know what a Happy David is, and can’t make one.”

Yates recognized, with a smile, the nature of the instrument disguised in Jim’s pronunciation and conception, and inquired: 

“What would you have me to swear to?”

“To what I tell ye.”

“Very well.  I have pen and paper with me, and am ready to write.  Whether I will sign the paper will depend upon its contents.”

“Be ye ready?”

“Yes.”

“Here ye have it, then.  ’I solem-ny sw’ar, s’welp me! that I hain’t seen no pauper, in no woods, with his name as Benedict.’”

Jim paused, and Yates, having completed the sentence, waited.  Then Jim muttered to himself: 

“With his name as Benedict—­with his name is Benedict—­with his name was Benedict.”

Then with a puzzled look, he said: 

“Yates, can’t ye doctor that a little?”

“Whose name was Benedict,” suggested Yates.

“Whose name was Benedict,” continued Jim.  “Now read it over, as fur as ye’ve got.”

“’I solemnly swear that I have seen no pauper in the woods whose name was Benedict.’”

“Now look a here, Sam Yates!  That sort o’ thing won’t do.  Stop them tricks.  Ye don’t know me, an’ ye don’t know whar ye’re settin’ if you think that’ll go down.”