“H-happened to run across this in a newspaper—­if this hain’t this county, I wahn’t born and raised here.  If it hain’t Coniston Mountain about seven o’clock of a June evening, I never saw Coniston Mountain.  Er—­listen to this.”

Whereupon he read, with a feeling which Wetherell had not supposed he possessed, an extract:  and as the storekeeper listened his blood began to run wildly.  At length Jethro put down the paper without glancing at his companion.

“There’s somethin’ about that that fetches you spinnin’ through the air,” he said slowly.  “Sh-showed it to Jim Willard, editor of the Newcastle Guardian.  Er—­what do you think he said?”

“I don’t know,” said Wetherell, in a low voice.

“Willard said, ’Bass, w-wish you’d find me that man.  I’ll give him five dollars every week for a letter like that—­er—­five dollars a week.’”

He paused, folded up the paper again and put it in his pocket, took out a card and handed it to Wetherell.

James G. Willard, Editor. 
Newcastle Guardian.

“That’s his address,” said Jethro.  “Er—­guess you’ll know what to do with it.  Er—­five dollars a week—­five dollars a week.”

“How did you know I wrote this article?” said Wetherell, as the card trembled between his fingers.

“K-knowed the place was Coniston seen from the ’east, knowed there wahn’t any one is Brampton or Harwich could have done it—­g-guessed the rest—­guessed the rest.”

Wetherell could only stare at him like a man who, with the halter about his neck, has been suddenly reprieved.  But Jethro Bass did not appear to be waiting for thanks.  He cleared his throat, and had Wetherell not been in such a condition himself, he would actually have suspected him of embarrassment.

“Er—­Wetherell?”

“Yes?”

“W-won’t say nothin’ about the mortgage—­p-pay it when you can.”

This roused the storekeeper to a burst of protest, but he stemmed it.

“Hain’t got the money, have you?”

“No—­but—­”

“If I needed money, d’ye suppose I’d bought the mortgage?”

“No,” answered the still bewildered Wetherell, “of course not.”  There he stuck, that other suspicion of political coercion suddenly rising uppermost.  Could this be what the man meant?  Wetherell put his hand to his head, but he did not dare to ask the question.  Then Jethro Bass fixed his eyes upon him.

“Hain’t never mixed any in politics—­hev you n-never mixed any?”

Wetherell’s heart sank.

“No,” he answered.

“D-don’t—­take my advice—­d-don’t.”

“What!” cried the storekeeper, so loudly that he frightened himself.

“D-don’t,” repeated Jethro, imperturbably.

There was a short silence, the storekeeper being unable to speak.  Coniston Water, at the foot of the garden, sang the same song, but it seemed to Wetherell to have changed its note from sorrow to joy.