The announcement of Twitchett’s death was the signal for an animated discussion and considerable betting. How much dust he had washed, and what he had done with it, seeing that he neither drank nor gambled, was the sole theme of discussion. There was no debate on the deceased’s religious evidences—no distribution of black crape—no tearful beating down of the undertaker; these accessories of a civilized deathbed were all scornfully disregarded by the bearded men who had feelingly drank to Twitchett’s good luck in whatever world he had gone to. But when it came to deceased’s gold—his money—the bystanders exhibited an interest which was one of those touches of nature which certifies the universal kinship. Each man knew all about Twitchett’s money, though no two agreed. He had hid it—he had been unlucky, and had not found much—he had slyly sent it home—he had wasted it by sending it East for lottery tickets which always drew blanks—he had been supporting a benevolent institution. Old Deacon Baggs mildly suggested that perhaps he only washed out such gold as he actually needed to purchase eatables with, but the boys smiled derisively—they didn’t like to laugh at the deacon’s gray hairs, but he _was_ queer. Old Twitchett was buried, and Sam Baker and Boylston Smith reverently uncovered with the rest of the boys, while Deacon Baggs made an extempore prayer. But for the remainder of the day Old Twitchett’s administrators foamed restlessly about, and watched each other narrowly, and listened to the conversation of every group of men who seemed to be talking with any spirit; they kept a sharp eye on the trail to Black Peter Gulch, lest some unscrupulous miner should suspect the truth and constitute himself sole legatee. But when the shades of evening had gathered, and a few round drinks had stimulated the citizens to more spirited discussion, Sam and Boylston strode rapidly out on the Black Peter Gulch trail, to obtain the reward of virtue. “He didn’t say what kind of a can it was,” remarked Mr. Baker, after the outskirts of Bender had been left behind. “Just what I thought,” replied Boylston; “pity he couldn’t hev lasted long enough for us to hev asked him. But I’ve been a-workin’ some sums about different kinds of cans—I learned how from Phipps, this afternoon—he’s been to college, an’ his head’s cram-full of sech puzzlin’ things. It took multiplyin’ with four figures to git the answer, but I couldn’t take a peaceful drink till I knowed somethin’ ’bout how the find would pan out.” “Well?” inquired Mr. Baker, anathematizing a stone over which he had just stumbled. “Well,” replied Boylston, stopping in an exasperating manner to light his pipe, “the smallest can a-goin’ is a half-pound powder-can, and that’ll hold over two thousand dollars worth—even _that_ wouldn’t be bad for a single night’s work—eh?” “Just so,” responded Mr. Baker; “then there’s oyster-cans an’ meat-cans.”