He paused abruptly.  He could not say that he had not touched it.

Tim’s wits were sharpened by the keen anxiety of the crisis.  He noticed the hesitation.  “Ye hev hed it,” he cried wildly.  “Ye know ye hev been foolin’ with it.  Ye know ’twar you-uns!”

He changed to sudden appeal.  “Don’t put the blame off on me, Birt,” he pleaded.  “I’m fairly afeared o’ Nate.”

“Ain’t the grant in the pocket o’ his coat—­whar ye left it hangin’ on a peg in the shed?” asked Birt, dismayed.

“Naw—­naw!” exclaimed Tim, despairingly.  “He missed his coat this mornin’, bein’ the weather war cooler, an’ then the grant, an’ he sent me arter it.  An’ I fund the coat a-hangin’ thar on the peg, whar I hed lef’ it, bein’ ez I furgot it when I went off with Rufe ter look at his chickens, an’ the pocket war empty an’ the paper gone!  Nate hev kem ter sarch, too!”

Once more he held out his hand.  “Gimme the grant.  Nate ’lows ’twar you-uns ez tuk it, bein’ ez I lef’ it hyar.”

Birt flushed angrily.  “I’ll say a word ter Nate Griggs!” he declared.

And he pushed past the trembling Tim, and took his way briskly into the tanyard.

There was a vague murmur in the group as he approached, and Nate Griggs came out from its midst, nodding his head threateningly.  His hat, thrust far back on his sandy hair, left in bold relief his long, thin face with its small eyes, which seemed now so close together that his glance had the effect of a squint.  He scanned Birt narrowly.

This was the first time the two had met since Birt’s ill-starred confidence there by the bark-mill.

“What ails ye, ter ’low ez it air me ez hev got yer grant, Nate Griggs?” Birt asked, steadily meeting the accusation.

The excitement had impaired for the moment Nate Griggs’s cunning.

“‘Kase,” he blurted out, “ye hev been a-tryin’ ter purtend ez ye fund the mine fust, an’ hev been a-tellin’ folks ’bout’n it.”

“Prove it,” said Birt, in sudden elation.  “Who war it I tole, an’ when?”

The sly Nathan caught his breath with a gasp.  His craft had returned.

Admit that to him Birt had divulged the discovery of the mine!  Confess, when!  This would invalidate the entry!

“Ye tole Tim,” Nate said shamelessly, “an’ ez ter when—­’twar yestiddy evenin’ at the tanyard.  Didn’t he, Tim?” And he whirled around to his younger brother for confirmation of this audacious and deliberate falsehood.

The abject Tim—­poor tool!—­frightened and cowering, nodded to admit it.  “Gimme the grant, Birt,” he faltered, helplessly.  “I oughtn’t ter hev furgot it.”

“Look-a-hyar, Birt,” said the tanner with a solemnity which the boy did not altogether understand, “gin Nate the grant.”

“I hain’t got it,” replied Birt, badgered and growing nervous.

“Tell him, then, ye never teched it.”