"I should pity him if ever you got hold of him, Luke," said Joe Marks.
"But we must consider what we can do for the boy."

"I wish we could get hold of that thief of a tramp!"

"Probably we shall. He'll find his way back here sooner or later."

But the burial of Peter Brant was the first consideration. No undertaker
was called, for in that small settlement one would not have been
supported. The ceremonies of death were few and simple. A wooden box was
put together, and Peter was placed in it, dressed as he was at the time of
his death. There was an itinerant minister who preached in the village
once in four weeks, but he was away now, and so there could be no
religious ceremony beyond reading a chapter from the New Testament. Joe
Marks, who had received a decent education, officiated as reader. Then the
interment took place. In the forenoon of the second day Peter's body was
laid away, and Ernest was left practically alone in the world.

Meanwhile some account must be given of Tom Burns, the tramp.

When he found it impossible to obtain whisky with the gold he had stolen
he felt very despondent. His craving became intolerable. He felt that he
had been decidedly ill used. What was the use of money unless it could be
converted into what his soul desired? But there was no way of changing the
coin except at the store of Joe Marks. To ask any of the villagers would
only have excited suspicion. Besides, the tramp felt sure that Ernest
would soon discover that he had been robbed. He would naturally be
suspected, especially as Joe Marks had knowledge of a gold piece being in
his possession.

There was a small settlement about five miles off called Daneboro. It was
probably the nearest place where he could get a glass of whisky. He must
walk there. It was not a pleasant prospect, for the tramp was lazy and not
fond of walking. Still, it seemed to be a necessity, and when he left the
store of Joe Marks he set out for Daneboro.

Thirst was not the only trouble with Tom Burns. He had not eaten anything
for about twenty-four hours, and his neglected stomach rebelled. He
tightened a girdle about his waist and walked on. He had perhaps gone two
miles when he came to a cabin. A woman stood in the doorway.

"My good lady," said Tom, putting on a pitiful expression, "I am a very
unfortunate man."

"Are you?" said the woman, scanning him critically. "You look like a
tramp."

"I do, madam, yet I was once a thriving merchant."