The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1878-02-16
Written for the PHfss.l
Granther Wilkins'S Money.

The day had been extremely hot and the
nery sun had concentrated his very hottest
beams upon Potterstown. The dusty streets
of the village had been silent and deserted;
but in the fields outside numerous haymak.
ers, sturdy men with Drowned faces and bare,
brawny arms, had worked and perspired all
day long. Many times during the day some
gray-headed veteran of the hay field, as he
stopped to gather wisp of grass with which
TO wipe his scythe preparatory to whetting it,
would cast his eyes along the glowing sky
and remark that he had never seen such
hay day before; and the numerous loads of
fragrant hay that were drawn on creaking
racks into the barns that day added emphasis
to his words.
But at length the time came when, in the
appointed course of nature, as recorded in
the "Old Farmers Almanac" the sun must
leave Potterstown until another day. Ac-
cordingy with last glare at the dusty street
and with few lingering caresses upon the
gilded vane that surmounted the meeting
house steeple, he sullenly sank into a dark
bank Of cloud that for an hour had been
gathering along the western horizon.
But with the first shade of twilight came
forth the boys and girls Of the village for
their accustomed evening romp beneath the
boosted elms that lined the principal street.
From white houses with green blinds, that
had hollyhocks and morning glories growing
in the front yard, and from houses that were
not white, that had neither hollyhock nor
morning glory growing in the front yard, the
children came with scream and whoop. Sit
ting on the grass by the roadside or reclining
against the fence the assembled heads of
Potterstown families rested from the labors
of the day, drawing in much contentment
and satisfaction through the stems of sundry
black pipes, and expectorating many wise
and sagacious remarks concerning matters
political and agricultural. Standing in sun
dry .doorways, the mothers of Potterstown
families, with aprons thrown over their heads
and with arms akimbo, discussed in shrill
tones with other mothers of families across
the way matters culinary and domestic.
On the evening of the particular day al
ready mentioned, which after much diligent
research have discovered was the twenty
third of July, no matter what year, two men
were leaning upon the broken and dilapidated
fence that enclosed the front yard of house
equally broken and dilapidated, some distance
up the street from the congregated heads of
families. One of these two men was old,
gray-headed, very poorly dressed and, when
he talked, had peculiar way of nodding his
head as il to add emphasis to every word.
His companion was young, and although his
clothes were coarse and his face and hands
Drowned by exposure in the hay field, there
was an air of manliness and independence
about him that commanded respect at once.
A stranger walking down the street past
where the two men stood would have de-
clared that they were plotting mischief of
some kind,-perhaps burglary or highway
robbery. They conversed in low, cautious
tones, with their heads very close to each
other and, as they talked they threw many
anxious glances over their shoulders as if
fearful some passerby might hear some por-
ton of their conversation. Yet their neigh
bors down the street never for moment
suspected that anything was wrong or that
any plot against the public veal or safety was
in process of elaboration under their very
noses. To them it was simply old Steve
Jones and Dick Barker talking with each
other.
But had any one of the dozen or more mis-
chievous boys who were playing tag in the
street, crept softly around the dilapidated
house, up to the corner nearest to where the
two men leaned upon the fence, assert
upon the word of an honest story teller that
he could have heard the old man say some
thing like this, emphasizing nearly every
word by deliberate shake of his gray head.
some night last May, when I'd been down
to the outlet fishin' for cells and was coming
hum 'cross lots bout midnight, saw old
granther Wilkins diggin' under a big ellum
10 his back medder." Here the speaker
paused moment, took apiece of tobacco
from his pocket, bit off huge quid and then
in answer to several questions asked by his
companion in quick succession, he resumed:
"Wall, at first was terribly scared, 1 tell
ye, but kept still and watched till saw
him put small black trunk in the hole he
had dug and cover it up with dirt. I've
heered say he kept all his money in that
trunk. know too that it couldn't be found
arter he died, though they sarched high and
low for it."
Then followed some whispered conversa-
ton too low and indstinct to be caught by
even the sharp ears of boy,-then distinctly
again fiom the younger man:
''Wel, I'll go with you; meet me at the
spring to-night-sharp twelve, mind you,"
and turning away he sauntered carelessly up
the street until he was lost to view in the
gloom fast gathering under the elms.
When twilight had thickened into night on
this same twenty-third day of July, the bank
of cloud that stretched along the horizon at
sunset extended itself until it covered the
entire sky with its dark masses. The wind
came up and sobbed and soughed dismally
through the branches of the Potterstown
elms. Atsnine O'Clock, when according to
the good old New England custom the bell
rang from the Westinghouse belfry its sum-
mons for the good people of the village to re-
tire to rest, the night had grown wild and
the wind fairly howled up the street. 1t
caught up the mellow tones of the bell, wan
tonly tossed them up and down, and back
and forth and ended by finging them with
malicious glee at the villagers in such a dis
cordant tumble that they had much difficult
ty in recognizing the voice of their old friend.
Midnight finds the village dark and dismal.
A few rods back from the street but concealed
from it by thick clump of alders solitary
ha rfo;y
light it sends out, we, who know already of
the appointed meeting at the spring at sharp
twelve, have no difficulty in recognizing in
the man who bears it, our friend Steve Jones
who leaned on the fence at sunset, and in his
companion the young man, Barker, who
leaned by his side.
IFS goin' ter rain, sure's thunder" said
the old man, giving hasty, but comprehen-
sive glance at the scuds flying wildly over