Then the Arkansans gave it up, all but Jim. He wrapped his coat around his head and dug and hopped but of a sudden he dropped his pick and hit himself in four or six places and jerked the coat from his head and came loping toward us sweeping the air with the coat, all around his head. He had not found the treasure, but he had found the bees’ nest, and as he came toward us we scooped up the money and held our pockets and ran. We had so much money we were weighted down with it, and we had to run easy or spill it, but we made pretty good time. Not a bee got us. We ran down the road toward Riverbank a hundred yards or so, and that was far enough, for the seven Arkansans only came about fifty yards and they were making it lively for the bumblebees, and the bumblebees were making it lively for them. Neither of them had time for anything else just then. While we were all scattered that way, we saw one man come out of the Riverbank crowd and walk right up to the dead pine. It was the Tough Customer. He had tied his pants tight around his ankle, and he had pulled his shirt up around his head, and he had his one woolen sock on one hand for a mitten and a red handkerchief tied around the other hand. With his coat on, there wasn’t a place a bee could get at him, and he hobbled right up to the dead pine and picked up the pick Jim had thrown down, and began to dig. Jibby Jones looked disgusted. “Dear me!” he said. “I don’t like that at all! I did hope we might find that treasure ourselves, but I certainly think it is a shame for the Tough Customer to find it after all the trouble we took to make him depart.” This was too much for Wampus. “What do you care who digs it up, Jibby?” he asked. “That Jim fellow gets it, anyway. You said yourself that, no matter whose land it was found on and no matter who found it, the treasure belonged to whoever owned it first. It wouldn’t be us, if we found it, and it won’t be the Tough Customer, if he finds it. The treasure will belong to that Jim man from Arkansas, because he is the heir of old John A. Murrell, and John A. Murrell was the first owner.” The only answer Jibby gave to that was to reach out a hand and feel of Wampus’s shirt, but he didn’t like the feel of it, so he felt of mine and he seemed to like it better. “Take off your shirt, George,” he said, slow and calm, as if he had all day to waste, and he took off his own shoes and pulled off his socks. “I don’t think that tramp has brains,” he said, “but I think he has robbed honey hives, and sometimes experience is as good as brains.” I had my shirt off now, for I can work pretty quick when I have to, and then Jibby began pulling it over his head.