record, may jest as well go onto the fire--it's gettin'
low--an' here's a satisfaction piece which I'm goin' to execute now,
that'll clear the thousan' dollar one. Come in here, John," he called
out.

The widow stared at David for a moment speechless, but as the
significance of his words dawned upon her, the blood flushed darkly in
her face. She sprang to her feet and, throwing up her arms, cried out:
"My Lord! My Lord! Dave! Dave Harum! Is it true?--tell me it's true! You
ain't foolin' me, air ye, Dave? You wouldn't fool a poor old woman that
never done ye no harm, nor said a mean word agin ye, would ye? Is it
true? an' is my place clear? an' I don't owe nobody anythin'--I mean, no
money? Tell it agin. Oh, tell it agin! Oh, Dave! it's too good to be
true! Oh! Oh! Oh, _my_! an' here I be cryin' like a great baby, an',
an'"--fumbling in her pocket--"I do believe I hain't got no
hank'chif.--Oh, thank ye," to John; "I'll do it up an' send it back
to-morrer.--Oh, what made ye do it, Dave?"

"Set right down an' take it easy, Mis' Cullom," said David soothingly,
putting his hands on her shoulders and gently pushing her back into her
chair. "Set right down an' take it easy.--Yes," to John, "I acknowledge
that I signed that."

He turned to the widow, who sat wiping her eyes with John's
handkerchief.

"Yes, ma'am," he said, "it's as true as anythin' kin be. I wouldn't no
more fool ye, ye know I wouldn't, don't ye? than I'd--jerk a hoss," he
asseverated. "Your place is clear now, an' by this time to-morro' the'
won't be the scratch of a pen agin it. I'll send the satisfaction over
fer record fust thing in the mornin'."

"But, Dave," protested the widow, "I s'pose ye know what you're
doin'----?"

"Yes," he interposed, "I cal'late I do, putty near. You ast me why I
done it, an' I'll tell ye if ye want to know. I'm payin' off an old
score, an' gettin' off cheap, too. That's what I'm doin'! I thought I'd
hinted up to it putty plain, seem' 't I've talked till my jaws ache; but
I'll sum it up to ye if ye like."

He stood with his feet aggressively wide apart, one hand in his trousers
pocket, and holding in the other the "morgige," which he waved from time
to time in emphasis.

[Illustration: DAVID HARUM, Act III]

"You c'n estimate, I reckon," he began, "what kind of a bringin'-up I
had, an' what a poor, mis'able, God-fersaken, scairt-to-death little
forlorn critter I was; put upon, an' snubbed, an' jawed at till I'd come