“Artists is that way,” volunteered The Hopper, as though from deep experience of art and life.  “I jes’ been thinkin’ that knowin’ folks like that an’ findin’ ’em humin, makin’ mistakes like th’ rest of us, kind o’ makes ut seem easier fer us all t’ play th’ game straight.  Ut’s goin’ to be th’ white card fer me—­jes’ chickens an’ eggs, an’ here’s hopin’ the bulls don’t ever find out we’re settled here.”

Humpy, having gone into the parlor to tend the fire, returned with two envelopes he had found on the mantel.  There was a check for a thousand dollars in each, one from Wilton, the other from Talbot, with “Merry Christmas” written across the visiting-cards of those gentlemen.  The Hopper permitted Mary and Humpy to examine them and then laid them on the kitchen table, while he deliberated.  His meditations were so prolonged that they grew nervous.

“I reckon they could spare ut, after all ye done fer ’em, Hop,” remarked Humpy.

“They’s millionaires, an’ money ain’t nothin’ to ’em,” said The Hopper.

“We can buy a motor-truck,” suggested Mary, “to haul our stuff to town; an’ mebbe we can build a new shed to keep ut in.”

The Hopper set the catsup bottle on the checks and rubbed his cheek, squinting at the ceiling in the manner of one who means to be careful of his speech.

“They’s things wot is an’ things wot ain’t,” he began.  “We ain’t none o’ us ever got nowheres bein’ crooked.  I been figurin’ that I still got about twenty thousan’ o’ that bunch o’ green I pulled out o’ that express car, planted in places where ‘taint doin’ nobody no good.  I guess ef I do ut careful I kin send ut back to the company, a little at a time, an’ they’d never know where ut come from.”

Mary wept; Humpy stared, his mouth open, his one eye rolling queerly.

“I guess we kin put a little chunk away every year,” The Hopper went on.  “We’d be comfortabler doin’ ut.  We could square up ef we lived long enough, which we don’t need t’ worry about, that bein’ the Lord’s business.  You an’ me’s cracked a good many safes, Hump, but we never made no money at ut, takin’ out th’ time we done.”

“He’s got religion; that’s wot he’s got!” moaned Humpy, as though this marked the ultimate tragedy of The Hopper’s life.

“Mebbe ut’s religion an’ mebbe ut’s jes’ sense,” pursued The Hopper, unshaken by Humpy’s charge.  “They wuz a chaplin in th’ Minnesoty pen as used t’ say ef we’re all square with our own selves ut’s goin’ to be all right with God.  I guess I got a good deal o’ squarin’ t’ do, but I’m goin’ t’ begin ut.  An’ all these things happenin’ along o’ Chris’mus, an’ little Shaver an’ his ma bein’ so friendly like, an’ her gittin’ me t’ help straighten out them ole gents, an’ doin’ all I done an’ not gettin’ pinched seems more ‘n jes’ luck; it’s providential’s wot ut is!”

This, uttered in a challenging tone, evoked a sob from Humpy, who announced that he “felt like” he was going to die.