The Mysterious Stranger, and Other Stories. Mark Twain
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Название: The Mysterious Stranger, and Other Stories
Автор: Mark Twain
Издательство: Bookwire
Жанр: Языкознание
isbn: 4057664177872
isbn:
“It is mine,” he said, “but not the contents. This is fat; mine was flat; mine was light; this is heavy.” He opened it; it was stuffed as full as it could hold with gold coins. He let us gaze our fill; and of course we did gaze, for we had never seen so much money at one time before. All our mouths came open to say “Satan did it!” but nothing came out. There it was, you see—we couldn't tell what Satan didn't want told; he had said so himself.
“Boys, did you do this?”
It made us laugh. And it made him laugh, too, as soon as he thought what a foolish question it was.
“Who has been here?”
Our mouths came open to answer, but stood so for a moment, because we couldn't say “Nobody,” for it wouldn't be true, and the right word didn't seem to come; then I thought of the right one, and said it:
“Not a human being.”
“That is so,” said the others, and let their mouths go shut.
“It is not so,” said Father Peter, and looked at us very severely. “I came by here a while ago, and there was no one here, but that is nothing; some one has been here since. I don't mean to say that the person didn't pass here before you came, and I don't mean to say you saw him, but some one did pass, that I know. On your honor—you saw no one?”
“Not a human being.”
“That is sufficient; I know you are telling me the truth.”
He began to count the money on the path, we on our knees eagerly helping to stack it in little piles.
“It's eleven hundred ducats odd!” he said. “Oh dear! if it were only mine—and I need it so!” and his voice broke and his lips quivered.
“It is yours, sir!” we all cried out at once, “every heller!”
“No—it isn't mine. Only four ducats are mine; the rest … !” He fell to dreaming, poor old soul, and caressing some of the coins in his hands, and forgot where he was, sitting there on his heels with his old gray head bare; it was pitiful to see. “No,” he said, waking up, “it isn't mine. I can't account for it. I think some enemy … it must be a trap.”
Nikolaus said: “Father Peter, with the exception of the astrologer you haven't a real enemy in the village—nor Marget, either. And not even a half-enemy that's rich enough to chance eleven hundred ducats to do you a mean turn. I'll ask you if that's so or not?”
He couldn't get around that argument, and it cheered him up. “But it isn't mine, you see—it isn't mine, in any case.”
He said it in a wistful way, like a person that wouldn't be sorry, but glad, if anybody would contradict him.
“It is yours, Father Peter, and we are witness to it. Aren't we, boys?”
“Yes, we are—and we'll stand by it, too.”
“Bless your hearts, you do almost persuade me; you do, indeed. If I had only a hundred-odd ducats of it! The house is mortgaged for it, and we've no home for our heads if we don't pay to-morrow. And that four ducats is all we've got in the—”
“It's yours, every bit of it, and you've got to take it—we are bail that it's all right. Aren't we, Theodor? Aren't we, Seppi?”
We two said yes, and Nikolaus stuffed the money back into the shabby old wallet and made the owner take it. So he said he would use two hundred of it, for his house was good enough security for that, and would put the rest at interest till the rightful owner came for it; and on our side we must sign a paper showing how he got the money—a paper to show to the villagers as proof that he had not got out of his troubles dishonestly.
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