"Ye know well enough. Your dad, Tom Cameron, is mighty riled up over
your bein' hurt. I heered him say that he'd give a ten-dollar note ter
know who it was drove by ye that night and crowded ye inter the ditch.
Would you give more than that not ter have it known who done it?"

"What do you mean?" exclaimed Tom, angrily.

"I guess ye like this here gal that's cone to live on Jabez, purty
well; don't ye-- yeou an' yer sister?" croaked old Parloe. "Wal, if
your dad an' the miller gits inter a row-- comes ter a clinch, as ye
might say-- yeou an' yer sister won't be let ter hev much ter do with
Ruth, eh, now?"

"I don't know that that's so," Tom said doggedly.

"Oh, yes, ye do. Think it over. Old Jabe will put his foot right down
an' he'll stop Ruth havin' anything ter do with ye-- ye know it! Wal,
now; think it over. I got a conscience, I have," pursued Parloe,
cringing and rubbing his hands together, his sly little eyes
sparkling. "I r'ally feel as though I'd oughter tell yer dad who it
was almost run ye down that night and made ye fall into the gully."

"You mean, you'd like to handle Dad's ten dollars!" cried Tom,
angrily.

Parloe smirked and still rubbed his hands together. "Don't matter a
mite whose ten dollars I handle," he said, suggestively. "Your ten
dollars would be jest as welcome to me as your Dad's, Master Cameron."