to the opposite shore. The blood was steadily, though slowly, flowing
from his wound, and had already stained his shirt red for a considerable
space. In the excitement of first receiving it he had not felt the pain;
now, however, the wound began to pain him, and, as might be expected,
his feeling of animosity toward our hero was not diminished.

"That cursed boy!" he muttered, between his teeth. "I wish I had had
time to give him one blow--he wouldn't have wanted another. I hope the
wound isn't serious--if it is, I may have paid dear for the gold."

Still, the thought of the gold in his pockets afforded some
satisfaction. He had been penniless; now he was the possessor of--as
near as he could estimate, for he had not had time to count--five
hundred dollars in gold. That was more than he had ever possessed before
at one time, and would enable him to live at ease for a while.

On reaching the shore he was about to leave the boat to its fate, when
he espied a boy standing at a little distance, with a hatchet in his
hand. This gave him an idea.

"Come here, boy," he said.

The boy came forward, and examined the stranger with curiosity.

"Is that your hatchet?" he asked.

"No, sir. It belongs to my father."

"Would you mind selling it to me if I will give you money enough to buy
a new one?"