of fire on my head." "You will always have my best wishes for your
prosperity. If ever you are able, repay the money you took from Mr.
Fairchild, and I will venture to promise that he will forgive you."
"With God's help I will!" CHAPTER XXXVIII. ABNER TRIMBLE'S PLOT. Just
off First Street, in Portland, Ore., is a saloon, over which appears the
name of the proprietor: "Abner Trimble." Two rough-looking fellows,
smoking pipes, entered the saloon. Behind the bar stood a stout,
red-faced man. This was Trimble, and his appearance indicated that he
patronized the liquors he dispensed to others. "Glad to see you, Floyd,"
said Trimble. "That means a glass of whisky, doesn't it?" returned
Floyd. "Well, not now. I want you to go up to the house again, to see my
wife." "About the old matter?" "Yes; she isn't quite satisfied about the
kid's death, and she won't make a will in my favor till she is. She
wants to ask you a few questions." Floyd made a wry face. "She's as bad
as a lawyer. I say, Abner, I'm afraid I'll get tripped up." "You must
stick to the old story." "What was it?" "Don't you remember you said
that the kid hired a boat to row in the harbor along with two other
boys, and the boat was upset and all three were drowned?" "Y