ssot at once explained his plan. By day, they were to search. At
night, they were to keep an incessant watch. It would last as long as it
had to. Hang it, old Trainard was a man like other men; and men have to
eat and drink! Old Trainard must needs, therefore, come out of his earth
to eat and drink.

"At most," said Goussot, "he can have a few crusts of bread in his
pocket, or even pull up a root or two at night. But, as far as drink's
concerned, no go. There's only the spring. And he'll be a clever dog if
he gets near that."

He himself, that evening, took up his stand near the spring. Three
hours later, his eldest son relieved him. The other brothers and the
farm-hands slept in the house, each taking his turn of the watch and
keeping all the lamps and candles lit, so that there might be no
surprise.

So it went on for fourteen consecutive nights. And for fourteen days,
while two of the men and Mother Goussot remained on guard, the five
others explored the Heberville ground.

At the end of that fortnight, not a sign.

The farmer never ceased storming. He sent for a retired
detective-inspector who lived in the neighbouring town. The inspector
stayed with him for a whole week. He found neither old Trainard nor the
least clue that could give them any hope of finding old Trainard.

"It's a bit thick!" repeated Farmer Goussot. "For he's there, the
rascal! As far as being anywhere goes, he's there. So...."

Planting himself on the threshold, he railed at the enemy at the top of
his voice:

"You blithering idiot, would you rather croak in your hole than fork out
the money? Then croak, you pig!"

And Mother Goussot, in her turn, yelped, in her shrill voice:

"Is it prison you're afraid of? Hand over the notes and you can hook
it!"

But old Trainard did not breathe a word; and the husband and wife tired
their lungs in vain.

Shocking days passed. Farmer Goussot could no longer sleep, lay
shivering with fever. The sons became morose and quarrelsome and never
let their guns out of their hands, having no other idea but to shoot the
tramp.

It was the one topic of conversation in the village; and the Goussot
story, from being local at first, soon went the round of the press.
Newspaper-reporters came from the assize-town, from Paris itself, and
were rudely shown the door by Farmer Goussot.

"Each man his own house," he said. "You mind your business. I mind mine.
It's nothing to do with any one."

"Still, Farmer