At any rate it was good for Twitchett that two old residents of Black Peter Gulch had, ignorant of the abandonment of the camp, revisited it, and accidentally found him insensible, yet alive, on the floor of his hut. They had taken turns in carrying him—for he was wasted and light—until they reached Crockey’s store, and when they laid him down, while they should drink, the proprietor of the establishment (so said a pessimist in the camp), seeing that his presence, while he lived, and until he was buried, would attract trade and increase the demand for drinks, insisted on putting Twitchett between the proprietary blankets. Twitchett had rallied a little, thanks to some of Crockey’s best brandy, but it was evident to those who saw him that when he left Crockey’s he would be entirely unconscious of the fact. Suddenly Twitchett seemed to realize as much himself, and to imagine that his exit might be made very soon, for he asked for the men who brought him in, and motioned to them to kneel beside him. “I’m very grateful, boys, for your kindness—I wish I could reward you; but haven’t got anything—I’ve got nothing at all. The only treasure I had I buried—buried it in the hut, when I thought I was going to die alone—I didn’t want those heathens to touch it. I put it in a can—I wish you’d git it, and—it’s a dying man’s last request—take it—and——” If Twitchett finished his remark, it was heard only by auditors in some locality yet unvisited by Sam Baker and Boylston Smith, who still knelt beside the dead man’s face, and with averted eyes listened for the remainder of Twitchett’s last sentence. Slowly they comprehended that Twitchett was in a condition which, according to a faithful proverb, effectually precluded the telling of tales; then they gazed solemnly into each other’s faces, and each man placed his dexter forefinger upon his lips. Then Boylston Smith whispered: “Virtue is its own reward—hey, Sam?” “You bet,” whispered Mr. Baker, in reply. “It’s on the square now, between us?” “Square as a die,” whispered Boylston. “When’ll we go for it?” asked Sam Baker. “Can’t go till after the fun’ril,” virtuously whispered Boylston. “’Twould be mighty ungrateful to go back on the corpse that’s made our fortunes.” “Fact,” remarked Mr. Baker, holding near the nostrils of Old Twitchett a pocket-mirror he had been polishing on his sleeve. After a few seconds he examined the mirror, and whispered: “Nary a sign—might’s well tell the boys.”