If Twitchett finished his remark, it was heard only by auditors in some locality yet unvisited by Sam Baker and Boylston Smith, who still knelt beside the dead man's face, and with averted eyes listened for the remainder of Twitchett's last sentence.

Slowly they comprehended that Twitchett was in a condition which, according to a faithful proverb, effectually precluded the telling of tales; then they gazed solemnly into each other's faces, and each man placed his dexter fore-finger upon his lips. Then Boylston Smith whispered:

"Virtue is its own reward--hey, Sam?"

"You bet," whispered Mr. Baker, in reply. "It's on the square now, between us?"

"Square as a die," whispered Boylston.

"When'll we go for it?" asked Sam Baker.

"Can't go till after the fun'ril," virtuously whispered Boylston.

"'Twould be mighty ungrateful to go back on the corpse that's made our fortunes."

"Fact," remarked Mr. Baker, holding near the nostrils of Old Twitchett a pocket-mirror he had been polishing on his sleeve. After a few seconds he examined the mirror, and whispered:

"Nary a sign--might's well tell the boys."

The announcement of Twitchett's death was the signal for an animated discussion and considerable betting. How much dust he had washed, and what he had done with it, seeing that he neither drank nor gambled, was the sole theme of discussion. There was no debate on the deceased's religious evidences--no distribution of black crape--no tearful beating down of the undertaker; these accessories of a civilized deathbed were all scornfully disregarded by the bearded men who had feelingly drank to Twitchett's good luck in whatever world he had gone to. But when it came to deceased's gold--his money--the bystanders exhibited an interest which was one of those touches of nature which certifies the universal kinship.

Each man knew all about Twitchett's money, though no two agreed. He had hid it--he had been unlucky, and had not found much--he had slyly sent it home--he had wasted it by sending it East for lottery tickets which always drew blanks--he had been supporting a benevolent institution. Old Deacon Baggs mildly suggested that perhaps he only washed out such gold as he actually needed to purchase eatables with, but the boys smiled derisively--they didn't like to laugh at the deacon's gray hairs, but he _was_ queer.

Old Twitchett was buried, and Sam Baker and Boylston Smith reverently uncovered with the rest of the boys, while Deacon Baggs made an extempore prayer. But for the remainder of the day Old Twitchett's administrators foamed restlessly about, and watched each other narrowly, and listened to the conversation of every group of men who seemed to be talking with any spirit; they kept a sharp eye on the trail to Black Peter Gulch, lest some unscrupulous miner should suspect the truth and constitute himself sole legatee.

But when the shades of evening had gathered, and a few round drinks had stimulated the citizens to more spirited discussion, Sam and Boylston strode rapidly out on the Black Peter Gulch trail, to obtain the reward of virtue.

"He didn't say what kind of a can it was," remarked Mr. Baker, after the outskirts of Bender had been left behind.

"Just what I thought," replied Boylston; "pity he couldn't hev lasted long enough for us to hev asked him. But I've been a-workin' some sums about different kinds of cans--I learned how from Phipps, this afternoon--he's been to college, an' his head's cram-full of sech puzzlin' things. It took multiplyin' with four figures to git the answer, but I couldn't take a peaceful drink till I knowed somethin'

'bout how the find would pan out."

"Well?" inquired Mr. Baker, anathematizing a stone over which he had just stumbled.

"Well," replied Boylston, stopping in an exasperating manner to light his pipe, "the smallest can a-goin' is a half-pound powder-can, and that'll hold over two thousand dollars worth--even _that_ wouldn't be bad for a single night's work--eh?"

"Just so," responded Mr. Baker; "then there's oyster-cans an'

meat-cans."

"Yes," said Boylston, "an' the smallest of 'em's good fur ten thousand, ef it's full. An' when yer come to five-pound powders--why, one of them would make two fellers rich!"

They passed quickly and quietly through Greenhorn's Bar. The diggings at the Bar were very rich, and experienced poker-players, such as were Twitchett's executors, had made snug little sums in a single night out of the innocent countrymen who had located at the Bar; but what were the chances of the most brilliant game to the splendid certainty which lay before them?

They reached Black Peter Gulch and found Twitchett's hut still unoccupied, save by a solitary rattlesnake, whose warning scared them not. Mr. Baker carefully covered the single window with his coat, and then Boylston lit a candle and examined the clay floor. There were several little depressions in its surface, and in each of these Boylston vigorously drove his pick, while Mr. Baker stood outside alternately looking out for would-be disturbers, and looking in through a crack in the door to see that his partner should not, in case he found the can, absentmindedly spill some of the contents into his own pocket before he made a formal division.

Boylston stopped a moment for breath, leaned on his pick, stroked his yellow beard thoughtfully, and offered to bet that it would be an oyster-can. Mr. Baker whispered through the crack that he would take that bet, and make it an ounce.

Boylston again bent to the labor, which, while it wearied his body, seemed to excite his imagination, for he paused long enough to bet that it would be a five-pound powder-can, and Mr. Baker, again willing to fortify himself against possible loss, accepted the bet in ounces.

Suddenly Boylston's pick brought to light something yellow and round--something the size of an oyster-can, and wrapped in a piece of oilskin.

"You've won _one_, bet," whispered Mr. Baker, who was inside before the yellow package had ceased rolling across the floor.

"Not ef _this_ is it," growled Boylston; "it don't weigh more'n ounce can, wrapper and all. Might's well see what 'tis, though."

The two men approached the candle, hastily tore off the oilskin, and carefully shook the contents from the can. The contents proved to be a small package, labeled: "_My only treasures_."

Boylston mentioned the name of the arch-adversary of souls, while Mr.

Baker, with a well-directed blow of his heel, reduced the can from a cylindrical form to one not easily described by any geometric term.

Unwrapping the package, Mr. Baker discovered a picture-case, which, when opened, disclosed the features of a handsome young lady; while from the wrappings fell a small envelope, which seemed distended in the middle.

"Gold in that, mebbe," suggested Boylston, picking it up and opening it.

It _was_ gold; fine, yellow, and brilliant, but not the sort of gold the dead man's friends were seeking, for it was a ringlet of hair.

Sadly Mr. Baker put on his coat, careless of the light which streamed through the window; slowly and sorely they wended their way homeward; wrathfully they bemoaned their wasted time, as they passed by the auriferous slumberers of Greenhorn's Bar; depressing was the general nature of their conversation. Yet they were human in spite of their disappointment, for, as old Deacon Baggs, who was an early riser, strolled out in the gray dawn for a quiet season of meditation, he saw Boylston Smith filling up a little hole he had made on top of Old Twitchett's grave, and putting the dirt down very tenderly with his hands.

BLIZZER'S WIFE.

The mining-camp of Tough Case, though small, had its excitements, as well as did many camps of half a dozen saloon-power; and on the first day of November, 1850, it was convulsed by the crisis of by far the greatest excitement it had ever enjoyed.

It was not a lucky "find," for some of the largest nuggets in the State had been taken out at Tough Case. It was not a grand spree, for _all_ sprees at Tough Case were grand, and they took place every Sunday. It was not a fight, for when the average of fully-developed fights fell below one a fortnight, some patriotic citizen would improvise one, that the honor of his village should not suffer.

No; all these promoters of delicious and refreshing Tumult were as nothing to the agitation which, commencing three months before, had increased and taken firmer hold of all hearts at Tough Case, until to-day it had reached its culmination.

Blizzer's wife had come out, and was to reach camp by that day's boat.

Since Blizzer had first announced his expectation, every man in camp had been secretly preparing for the event; but to-day all secrecy was at an end, and white shirts, standing collars, new pants, black hats, polished boots, combs, brushes and razors, and even hair-oil and white handkerchiefs, so transformed the tremulous miners, that a smart detective would have been puzzled in looking for any particular citizen of Tough Case.

Even old Hatchetjaw, whose nickname correctly indicated the moral import of his countenance, sheepishly gave Moosoo, the old Frenchman, an ounce of gold-dust for an hour's labor bestowed on Hatchetjaw's self-asserting red hair.

Bets as to what she looked like were numerous; and, as no one had the slightest knowledge on the subject, experienced bettists made handsome fortunes in betting against every description which was backed by money.

For each man had so long pondered over the subject, that his ideal portrait seemed to him absolutely correct; and an amateur phrenologist, who had carefully studied Blizzer's cranium and the usually accepted laws of affinity, consistently bet his last ounce, his pistol, hut, frying-pan, blankets, and even a pack of cards in a tolerable state of preservation.

Sailors, collegemen, Pikes, farmers, clerks, loafers, and sentimentalists, stood in front of Sim Ripson's store, and stared their eyes into watery redness in vain attempts to hurry the boat.

A bet of drinks for the crowd, lost by the non-arrival of the boat on time, was just being paid, when Sim Ripson, whose bar-window commanded the river, exclaimed:

"She's comin'!"

Many were the heeltaps left in glasses as the crowd hurried to the door; numerous were the stealthy glances bestowed on shirt-cuffs and finger-nails and boot-legs. Crosstree, a dandyish young sailor, hung back to regard himself in a small fragment of looking-glass he carried in his pocket, but was rebuked for his vanity by stumbling over the door-sill--an operation which finally resulted in his nose being laid up in ordinary.

The little steamer neared the landing, whistled shrilly, snorted defiantly, buried her nose in the muddy bank in front of the store, and shoved out a plank.

Several red-shirted strangers got off, but no one noticed them; at any other time, so large an addition to the population of Tough Case would have justified an extra spree.