youth into silence. It was needless; for, right or wrong, the son
would have died rather than betray his father.

John Wilford's operations in hiding the money were as transparent as
his efforts to quiet the suspicions of his family. The constable
followed his tracks in the soft ground of the corn-field till he came
to a stump in one corner of the lot. It was decayed and hollow, and
in one of the cavities the pocketbook was discovered. Mr. Randall
laughed for joy when it was handed up to him. Its contents were
undisturbed, and not a dollar of the money was missing. The party
walked back to the house, having been absent less than half an hour.
The ferryman was just coming out as they entered the gate.

"I hope you are satisfied," said he, confident that the officers
would never think of crossing the corn-field in search of the lost
treasure.

"I'm satisfied, Mr. Wilford," said the sheriff.

"Don't you think it is a mean thing to come here and accuse me of
robbing one of my passengers?" continued the ferryman.

"I don't think so."

"In my opinion, Mr. Randall hasn't lost any money. I don't believe a
man would throw his coat down anywhere if there was six thousand
dollars in the pocket."

"But the money was lost, whether you believe it or not," interposed
the bank director, irritated by this charge.