“G’way, Towse,” she drawled gutturally.  She struck vaguely at him with her chubby little fist, which he waggishly took between his teeth in a gingerly gentle grip.

“Stand back thar, Tennessee,” Birt murmured mechanically.

As usual, Towse was the precursor of Rufe, who presently dawdled out from the underbrush.  He quickened his steps upon observing the intent attitude of the party, and as he came up he demanded vivaciously, “What ails that thar pit o’ yourn, Mister Perkins?—­ thought ye said ‘t warn’t goin’ ter be opened ag’in fore-shortly.”

For a moment the tanner made no reply.  Then he drawled absently, “Nuthin’ ails the pit, Rufe—­nuthin’.”

Rufe sat down on the edge of it, and gazed speculatively at it.  Presently he began anew, unabashed by the silence of the grave and contemplative group.

“This hyar tan hev got sorter moist atop now; I wonder ef that thar grant o’ Nate’s got spi’led ennywise with the damp.”

Birt winced.  It had been a certain mitigation of his trouble that, thanks to his mother’s caution, the children at home knew nothing of the disgrace that had fallen upon him, and that there, at least, the atmosphere was untainted with suspicion.

The next moment he was impressed by the singularity of Rufe’s mention of the missing grant and its place of concealment.

“Look-a-hyar, Rufe,” he exclaimed, excitedly; “how d’ye know ennything ‘bout Nate’s grant an’ whar ’t war hid?”

Rufe glanced up scornfully, insulted in some occult manner by the question.

“How did I know, Birt Dicey?  How d’ye know yerse’f?” he retorted.  “I knows a heap, ginerally.”

Perkins, catching the drift of Birt’s intention, came to the rescue.

“Say, bub, how d’ye know the grant war ever put hyar?”

“Kase,” responded Rufe, more amicably, “I seen it put hyar—­right yander.”

He indicated the spot where the paper lay, according to Byers, when it was discovered.

Birt could hardly breathe.  His anxieties, his hopes, his fears, seemed a pursuing pack before which he was almost spent.  He panted like a hunted creature.  Tennessee was swinging herself to and fro, holding by his hand.  Sometimes she caught at Towse’s unlovely ear, as he sat close by with his tongue lolled out and an attentive air, as if he were assisting at the discussion.

“Who put it thar, bub?” demanded Perkins.

It would not have surprised Birt, so perverse had been the course of events, if Rufe had accused him on the spot.

“Pig-wigs Griggs,” replied Rufe, unexpectedly.

A glance of intelligence passed between the men.

“Tell ’bout it, Rufe,” said the tanner, suppressing all appearance of excitement.

“Ye ain’t goin’ ter do nuthin’ ter Pig-wigs fur foolin’ with yer pit, ef I tell ye?” asked Rufe, quickly.

“Naw, bub, naw.  Which Griggs do ye call ‘Pig-wigs?’”