“But I had no money in my pocket,” said Wetherell, perplexedly.  And then, gaining, indignation, “Take this to the man who sent you, and give it back to him.”

But Bijah merely whispered caressingly in his ear, “Nobody sent me,—­you understand,—­nobody sent me,” and was gone.  Wetherell stood for a moment, dazed by the man’s audacity, and then, hurrying to the front stoop, the money still in his hand, he perceived Mr. Bixby in the sunlit road walking, Jethro-fashion, toward Ephraim Prescott’s harness shop.

“Why, Daddy,” said Cynthia, coming in from the garden, “where did you get all that money?  Your troubles must feel better.”

“It is not mine,” said Wetherell, starting.  And then, quivering with anger and mortification, he sank down on the stoop to debate what he should do.

“Is it somebody else’s?” asked the child, presently.

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t you give it back to them, Daddy?”

How was Wetherell to know, in his fright, that Mr. Bixby had for once indulged in an overabundance of zeal in Jethro’s behalf?  He went to the door, laughter came to him across the green from the harness shop, and his eye following the sound, fastened on Bijah seated comfortably in the midst of the group there.  Bitterly the storekeeper comprehended that, had he possessed courage, he would have marched straight after Mr. Bixby and confronted him before them all with the charge of bribery.  The blood throbbed in his temples, and yet he sat there, trembling, despising himself, repeating that he might have had the courage if Jethro Bass had not bought the mortgage.  The fear of the man had entered the storekeeper’s soul.

“Does it belong to that man over there?” asked Cynthia.

“Yes.”

“I’ll take it to him, Daddy,” and she held out her hand.

“Not now,” Wetherell answered nervously, glancing at the group.  He went into the store, addressed an envelope to “Mr. Bijah Bixby of Clovelly,” and gave it to Cynthia.  “When he comes back for his wagon, hand it to him,” he said, feeling that he would rather, at that moment, face the devil himself than Mr. Bixby.

Half an hour later, Cynthia gave Mr. Bixby the envelope as he unhitched his horse; and so deftly did Bijah slip it into his pocket, that he must certainly have misjudged its contents.  None of the loungers at Ephraim’s remarked the transaction.

If Jethro had indeed instructed Bijah to look after his flock at Coniston, it was an ill-conditioned move, and some of the flock resented it when they were quite sure that Bijah was climbing the notch road toward Clovelly.  The discussion (from which the storekeeper was providentially omitted) was in full swing when the stage arrived, and Lem Hallowell’s voice silenced the uproar.  It was Lem’s boast that he never had been and never would be a politician.

“Why don’t you folks quit railin’ against Jethro and do somethin’?” he said.  “Bije turns up here, and you all scatter like a flock of crows.  I’m tired of makin’ complaints about that Brampton road, and to-day the hull side of it give way, and put me in the ditch.  Sure as the sun rises to-morrow, I’m goin’ to make trouble for Jethro.”