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?