" 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 c