The major had lost faith in humanity, and knew, besides, that all humanity had lost faith in him, for it was more than intimated that he was suspected of collusion with Prosper. The little dapper “fits” imitator declared that he had lost all ambition, and should at once return to his legitimate business of three-card monte. As for the other two, they contented themselves for weeks with a vain attempt to dog the movements of their late associates, and learn what had become of the doctor’s money. The only man who made any profit out of the operation was the landlord of the “hotel,” who found the wallet lying on the table after Prosper’s half-frenzied exit, and sold it to a countryman for three dollars, applying that sum to the rent of the room. Perhaps the bitterest moment undergone by any of them all, however, came to the share of Prosper himself, the next morning, when he read in the papers an offer of a thousand dollars’ reward for the return of that very wallet. Then, indeed, he bowed his head in utter desolation, for the truth became only too clear to a mind so well trained as his own. “Changed in the crowd!” he exclaimed. “Got into the wrong hands. Somebody else will get the reward or keep the wallet!” It was too much for human endurance, and for at least an hour the defeated pickpocket had serious thoughts of giving up everything and going to work for an honest living. It looked a good deal as if even the evil one had turned against him, which is very much what every evil man is apt to make up his mind to, sooner or later. CHAPTER V ZEB’S OPINION OF APPLE SPROUTS “Zebedee, my son,” remarked old Deacon Fuller to that young gentleman, when he returned from driving the cows to pasture, the evening after the affair at the spring-board--“Zebedee, what is this I hear of your violent threats against the Rev. Dr. Dryer?” The deacon was standing in the kitchen doorway, deliberately stripping the leaves from a handful of strong, well-grown apple-tree “suckers,” which he had recently gathered in the orchard back of the house. For a moment Zeb stood in silence, eying the ominous-looking sprouts with a squint in which a very grave expression was beginning to make its appearance, and his father continued: “Dr. Dryer has been here, himself, and he tells me you employed the most disrespectful and threatening language.” “No, father,” said Zeb, stoutly, “no disrespect at all. I only wanted to drown him.” “Drown him! Zebedee! Drown Dr. Dryer? Are you crazy?” “Not a bit, father; it might be bad for him--just a little--but think what a splendid thing it would be for the Academy. We’ll never get rid of him any other way.” Deacon Fuller was a parent of the genuine old Puritanic stock, and his weather-beaten face could put on all the iron sternness of his race and breeding, but behind every visage of that kind there is a strangely mellow something, and he was Zeb’s father. Not a muscle quivered, but his only reply for a moment was: