“Ten thousand!” exclaimed Alfred, beginning to comprehend the matter more clearly; “why, it's hardly quite ten thousand altogether, let alone anything over!” “No lies, no lies! I've got it all in my head, if you haven't. Twenty years on shares--first year, one hundred and thirty-seven dollars--that was the year the big flood swep' off half the corn on the bottom; second year, two hundred and fifteen, with interest on the first, say six on a hundred, allowin' the thirty-seven for your squanderin's, two hundred and twenty-one; third year, three hundred and five, with interest, seventeen, makes three hundred and twenty-two, and twenty, your half of the bay horse sold to Sam Falconer, forty-two; fourth year”-- “Never mind, Daddy!” Alfred interrupted; “I've got it all down in my books; you needn't go over it.” The old man struck his hickory staff violently upon the floor. “I _will_ go over it!” he croaked, hoarsely. “I mean to show you, boy, to your own eyes and your own ears, that you're now worth thirteen thousand two hundred and forty-nine dollars and fifteen cents! And ten thousand of it balances the gal's ten thousand, leavin' three thousand two hundred and forty-nine and fifteen cents, for the Doctor to make up to _you!_ And you'll show him your papers, for you're no son of mine if you've put out your money without securin' it. I don't mind your goin' your own road with what you've arned, though, for your proper good, you needn't ha' been so close; but now you've got to show what's in your hand, if you mean to git it double!” Alfred Barton was overwhelmed by the terrors of this unexpected dilemma. His superficial powers of dissimulation forsook him; he could only suggest, in a weak voice: “Suppose my papers don't show that much?” “You've made that, or nigh onto it, and your papers _must_ show it! If money can't stick to your fingers, do you s'pose I'm goin' to put more into 'em? Fix it any way you like with the Doctor, so you square accounts. Then, afterwards, let him come to me--ay, let him come!” Here the old man chuckled until he brought on a fit of coughing, which drove the dark purple blood into his head. His son hastened to restore him with a glass of brandy. “There, that'll do,” he said, presently; “now you know what's what. Go up to the Doctor's this afternoon, and have it out before you come home. I can't dance at your weddin', but I wouldn't mind help nuss another grandchild or two--eh, boy?”