liging one,
couldn't fry a sick man's pork, or make his coffee.

But, then, Twitchett was queer, they agreed--he always was queer. He
kept himself so much apart from the crowd, that until to-night, when the
boys were excited about him, few had ever noticed that he was a
white-haired, delicate young man, instead of a decrepit old one, and
that the twitching of his lips was rather touching than comical.

At any rate it was good for Twitchett that two old residents of Black
Peter Gulch had, ignorant of the abandonment of the camp, revisited it,
and accidentally found him insensible, yet alive, on the floor of his
hut. They had taken turns in carrying him--for he was wasted and
light--until they reached Crockey's store, and when they laid him down,
while they should drink, the proprietor of the establishment (so said a
pessimist in the camp), seeing that his presence, while he lived, and
until he was buried, would attract trade and increase the demand for
drinks, insisted on putting Twitchett between the proprietary blankets.

Twitchett had rallied a little, thanks to some of Crockey's best brandy,
but it was evident to those who saw him that when he left Crockey's he
would be entirely unconscious of the fact. Suddenly Twitchett seemed to
realize as much himself, and to imagine that his exit might be made very
soon, for he asked for the men who brought him in, and motioned to them
to kneel beside him.

"I'm very grateful, boys, for your kindness--I wish I could reward you;
but haven't got anything--I've got nothing at all. The only treasure I
had I buried--buried it in the hut, when I thought I was going to die
alone--I didn't wan't those heathens to touch it. I put it in a can--I
wish you'd git it, and--it's a dying man's last request--take it--and--"

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,