much is a true story? Do you really mean?"--

"Hold on, Mr. Ford!" interrupted Uncle Ben, suddenly fumbling in the
breast-pocket of his red shirt, "I reckoned on your being a little hard
with me, remembering our first talk 'bout these things--so I allowed I'd
bring you some proof." Slowly extracting a long legal envelope from his
pocket, he opened it, and drew out two or three crisp certificates of
stock, and handed them to the master.

"Ther's one hundred shares made out to Benj Daubigny. I'd hev brought
you over the deed of the land too, but ez it's rather hard to read
off-hand, on account of the law palaver, I've left it up at the shanty
to tackle at odd times by way of practising. But ef you like we'll go up
thar, and I'll show it to you."

Still haunted by his belief in Uncle Ben's small duplicities, Mr. Ford
hesitated. These were certainly bona fide certificates of stock made out
to "Daubigny." But he had never actually accepted Uncle Ben's
statement of his identity with that person, and now it was offered as a
corroboration of a still more improbable story. He looked at Uncle Ben's
simple face slightly deepening in color under his scrutiny--perhaps with
conscious guilt.

"Have you made anybody your confidant? Rupe, for instance?" he asked
significantly.

"In course not," replied Uncle Ben with a slight stiffening of wounded
pride. "On'y yourself, Mr. Ford, and the young feller Stacey from the
bank--ez was obligated to know it. In fact, I wos kalkilatin' to ask you
to help me talk to him about that yer boundary land."