“Yessir,” assented Corbin. “An’ the g’rillas they s’arched the Squair’s house ag’in an’ ag’in, an’ couldn’t find nuthin’. These two boys hed run off ter the Secesh army, by that time, else they’d hev been made ter tell whar the plunder war hid. An’ though Jerry deserted an’ kem back, the Southern sympathizers wouldn’t let him bide one single night in the cove, but druv him off, an’ he ain’t dared ter show his face hyar sence, else I reckon he’d hev stole the money, ef he hed knowed whar it war—the Squair being dead mighty onexpected.” The storekeeper’s eyes widened. “Ye—’low—the—money’s—thar—yit—hid in Keedon Bluffs?” he panted. “I know this,” said old Corbin. “’Twar hid thar, an’ I hearn with my own ears the heirs say they never got no money out’n Keedon Bluffs—they fairly scouted the idee. An’ now,” he pursued, “one of the heirs is dead; an’ the t’ other’s moved ter Arkansas. An’ hyar kems one o’ the men ez watched whilst the money war hid; an’ the t’ other ez hid it—a _blind_ man—be in a mighty hurry an’ disturbament ter climb down Keedon Bluffs. I dunno why they hain’t got it afore. I can’t foller percisely the serpient trail of the evil men. But ye mark my words—them two fellers will hev a powerful big row—or”—his eyes twinkled—“they’ll divide the plunder an’ ye’ll hear o’ them consortin’ tergether like frien’s.” He met with a triumphant leer the distended astonished gaze of the storekeeper. “Ho! ho! Keedon Bluffs don’t speak ’less they be spoke to fust,” he continued, “but thar secrets git noised abroad. Thar’s suthin’ thar wuth layin’ hands on ’thout foolin’ along of a old spent cannon-ball.” V. The arrival of Jerry Binwell and his little girl at Hiram Guyther’s cabin soon became known throughout the Cove, and the fact, which Ike shortly discovered, that the newcomers were regarded with disfavor by others did not tend to further commend them to him. He felt an odd sinking of the heart and a grotesque sort of mortification whenever he went to the mill or the store and encountered questions and comments concerning his father’s guests. Sometimes he was taken aside by a conservative old codger, and the queries were propounded in a mysterious and husky whisper which imparted additional urgency. “They tell me ez _Jerry Binwell_ air a-visitin’ yer dad—air that a true word?” And Ike would sulkily nod. “What did he kem fur?” “Ter get out’n the storm.” “Storm’s been over a week an’ better”—with an implacable logic. Then, dredging with new energy for information—“When’s he goin’ away?” “Dunno.” “Whar’s he goin’ ter?” persistently. “Dunno.” “What’s he doin’ of?” changing the base of attack. “Nuthin’.” “What’s he say?” “Ennything.” “Waal sir!” in a tone of disappointment, the whole examination resulting in the total amount of nothing.