,
forgot to 'tend to his feelin's over old Tilden's grave, an' I've axed
'im to come back an' use up his clean hankerchers. He was took with a
fit o' knowin' somethin', too, an' I'm goin' to see if I can cure 'im.
It's a new sort o' sickness for him, an' it may floor 'im."

"I suppose there is no use in carrying on this farce any longer," said
Yates. "I knew you, Mr. Benedict, soon after arriving here, and it seems
that you recognized me; and now, here is my hand. I never meant you ill,
and I did not expect to find you alive. I have tried my best to make you
out a dead man, and so to report you; but Jim has compelled me to come
back and make sure that you are alive."

"No, I didn't," responded Jim. "I wanted to let ye know that I'm alive,
and that I don't 'low no hired cusses to come snoopin' round my camp,
an' goin' off with a haw-haw buttoned up in their jackets, without a
thrashin'."

Benedict, of course, stood thunderstruck and irresolute. He was
discovered by the very man whom his old persecutor had sent for the
purpose. He had felt that the discovery would be made sooner or
later--intended, indeed, that it should be made--but he was not ready.

They all walked to the cabin in moody silence. Jim felt that he had been
hasty, and was very strongly inclined to believe in the sincerity of
Yates; but he knew it was safe to be on his guard with any man who was
in the employ of Mr. Belcher. Turk saw there was trouble, and whined
around his master, as if inquiring whether there was anything that he
could do to bring matters to an adjustment.

"No, Turk; he's my game," said Jim. "Ye couldn't eat 'im no more nor ye
could a muss rat."

There were just three seats in the cabin--two camp-stools and a chest.

"That's the seat for ye," said Jim to Yates, pointing to the chest.
"Jest plant yerself thar. Thar's somethin' in that 'ere chest as'll make
ye tell the truth."

Yates looked at the chest and hesitated.

"It ain't powder," said Jim, "but it'll blow ye worse nor powder, if ye
don't tell the truth."

Yates sat down. He had not appreciated the anxiety of Benedict to escape
discovery, or he would not have been so silly as to bruit his knowledge
until he had left the woods. He felt ashamed of his indiscretion, but,
as he knew that his motives were good, he could not but feel that he had
been outraged.

"Jim, you have abused me," said he. "You have misunderstood me, and that
is the only apology that you can make for