"Look-a-hyar, Birt," said the tanner with a solemnity which the boy
did not altogether understand, "gin Nate the grant."

"I hain't got it," replied Birt, badgered and growing nervous.

"Tell him, then, ye never teched it."

Birt's impulse was to adopt the word. But he had seen enough of
falsehood. He had done with concealment.

"I did tech it," he said boldly, "but I hain't got it. I put it
back in the pocket o' the coat."

Jube Perkins laid a sudden hand upon his collar. "'Tain't no use
denyin' it, Birt," he said with the sharp cadence of dismay. "Gin
the grant back ter Nate, an' mebbe he won't go no furder 'bout'n it.
Stealin' a paper like that air a pen'tiary crime!"

Birt reeled under the word. He thought of his mother, the children.
He had a bitter foretaste of the suspense, the fear, the
humiliation. And he was helpless. For no one would believe him!
His head was in a whirl. He could not stand. He sank down upon the
wood-pile, vaguely hearing a word here and there of what was said in
the crowd.

"His mother air a widder-woman," remarked one of the group. "An'
she air mighty poor."

Andy Byers was laughing cynically.