“Want to see you a minute.” “What is it?” “Where can we talk private?” asked Mr. Bixby, looking around. “There's no one here,” Wetherell answered. “What do you wish to say?” “If the boys was to see me speakin' to you, they might git suspicious--you understand,” he confided, his manner conveying a hint that they shared some common policy. “I don't meddle with politics,” said Wetherell, desperately. “Exactly!” answered Bijah, coming even closer. “I knowed you was a level-headed man, moment I set eyes on you. Made up my mind I'd have a little talk in private with you--you understand. The boys hain't got no reason to suspicion you care anything about politics, have they?” “None whatever.” “You don't pay no attention to what they say?” “None.” “You hear it?” “Sometimes I can't help it.” “Ex'actly! You hear it.” “I told you I couldn't help it.” “Want you should vote right when the time comes,” said Bijah. “D-don't want to see such an intelligent man go wrong an' be sorry for it--you understand. Chester Perkins is hare-brained. Jethro Bass runs things in this state.” “Mr. Bixby--” “You understand,” said Bijah, screwing up his face. “Guess your watch is a-comin' out.” He tucked it back caressingly, and started for the door--the back door. Involuntarily Wetherell put his hand to his pocket, felt something crackle under it, and drew the something out. To his amazement it was a ten-dollar bill. “Here!” he cried so sharply in his fright that Mr. Bixby, turned around. Wetherell ran after him. “Take this back!” “Guess you got me,” said Bijah. “W-what is it?” “This money is yours,” cried Wetherell, so loudly that Bijah started and glanced at the front of the store. “Guess you made some mistake,” he said, staring at the storekeeper with such amazing innocence that he began to doubt his senses, and clutched the bill to see if it was real. “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?”