"That's just it, Mr. Bailey, and that's what makes it so hard for me." Mat saw he had been swept off his feet by his own eloquence, and so he tried again. "Well, they would have got it anyhow. They might have wasted a minute or two more hunting for it, but they would have found it, and Cummins would have fought for it just the same." "Yes, that is what I've thought," said Mamie. "Oh, why did he risk his life so?" "I'll tell you, Mamie," said Mat, "everybody in this country is crazy about gold--miners, gamblers, bankers, robbers,--everybody. They're like hungry wolves, ready to tear one another to pieces. Only the wolves have more sense. Gold is of no earthly use to anyone. I'm sick and tired of the whole business." And Mat rose, hat in hand, to go. "I hope you'll call again, Mr. Bailey," said the the girl shyly. Here was a friend in need! A great bashful, manly fellow, so kind and sympathetic! "I'll be more than pleased to," replied Mat, determined to prove his philosophy that there are things far more precious than gold. Fascinated with the idea, he loitered in the neighborhood longer than he would otherwise have done; and, glancing back at the dear girl's house, he was astonished to see "Bed-bug Brown" emerge from the cellar. Brown saw him at about the same time. There was no escape for either, so they drifted together good-naturedly. The little man extended his hand: "Congratulations! When is the wedding to be?" Bailey simply smiled, and said: "Bed-bug Brown, detective!" CHAPTER IX The Home-Coming of a Dead Man Meanwhile the body of the murdered man--noble countenance peaceful now after twenty-five years of adventure--had been traveling eastward to its final resting place. The body of William F. Cummins came home in state--home at last, where the familiar caw of crow and tinkle of cow-bell might almost conjure the dead back to life again. Three years before, at the time of the great Centennial, when, in the full vigor of manhood, Will Cummins had visited his native town, no sounds had so stirred old memories of fields and mountains as those homely sounds of crow and cow-bell. Then neighbors had flocked about the bold Californian, eager to press his hand and to look into his fearless eyes. Now, robbed and murdered, he came home again, life's journey ended. The quiet village was appalled, and shaken with anger. Friends and neighbors flocked to the funeral--indignant youths, solemn old men and women. True, the younger generation had hardly known of the Californian's existence. To them he seemed to have come out of the Sierras like a Rip Van Winkle, who slept soundly on, asking no questions. But to the old men he had died a youth, full of promise. They remembered well the eager buoyancy with which he and his comrades had set out for the gold fields. Middle-aged men and women remembered his school days in Reedsville, when he was one of them, when they were all healthy, merry boys and girls together.