"I dropped a pocketbook containing government bonds and some other securities, with between fifty and sixty thousand dollars," responded Peter Drummond, carelessly; "but no matter, if any man will return a few autograph letters from foreign potentates that happened to be in it,--of no value to anybody but the owner,--he can keep the money. Thar's nothin' mean about me," he concluded, languidly. This statement, bearing every evidence of the grossest mendacity, was lightly passed over, and the men walked on with the deepest gravity. "But hev you?" Cass presently asked of another. "I lost my pile to Jack Hamlin at draw-poker, over at Wingdam last night," returned the other, pensively, "but I don't calkilate to find it lying round loose." Forced at last by this kind of irony into more detailed explanation, Cass confided to them his discovery, and produced his treasure. The result was a dozen vague surmises,--only one of which seemed to be popular, and to suit the dyspeptic despondency of the party,--a despondency born of hastily masticated fried pork and flapjacks. The ring was believed to have been dropped by some passing "road agent" laden with guilty spoil. "Ef I was you," said Drummond, gloomily, "I wouldn't flourish that yer ring around much afore folks. I've seen better men nor you strung up a tree by Vigilantes for having even less than that in their possession." "And I wouldn't say much about bein' up so d----d early this morning," added an even more pessimistic comrade; "it might look bad before a jury." With this the men sadly dispersed, leaving the innocent Cass with the ring in his hand, and a general impression on his mind that he was already an object of suspicion to his comrades,--an impression, it is hardly necessary to say, they fully intended should be left to rankle in his guileless bosom.