Woolly Billy withdrew the stick and thought for a moment. He reasoned that a thing that jingled was not at all likely to bite. He dropped the stick and cautiously inserted his hand to the full length of his little arm. His fingers grasped something which felt more or less familiar, and he drew forth a bank-note and several silver coins. Woolly Billy's eyes grew very round and large as he stared at his handful. He was sure that money did not grow in hollow trees. Tug Blackstock kept his money in an old black wallet. Woolly Billy liked money because it bought peppermints, and molasses candy, and gingerpop. But this money was plainly not his. He reluctantly put it back into the hole. Thoughtfully he climbed down. He knew that money was such a desirable thing that it led some people--bad people whom Tug Blackstock hated--to steal what did not belong to them. He picked up the patch of bark and laboriously fitted it back into its place over the hole, lest some of these bad people should find the money and appropriate it. "Not a word, now, not one single word," he admonished Jim, "till Tug comes home. We'll tell him all about it." II It was five o'clock in the sleepy summer afternoon, and the flies buzzed drowsily among the miscellaneous articles that graced the windows of the Corner Store. The mills had shut down early, because the supply of logs was running low in the boom, and no more could be expected until there should be a rise of water. Some half-dozen of the mill hands were sitting about the store on nail-kegs and soap-boxes, while Zeb Smith, the proprietor, swung his long legs lazily from the edge of the littered counter. Woolly Billy came in with a piece of silver in his little fist to buy a packet of tea for Mrs. Amos. Jim, not liking the smoke, stayed outside on the plank sidewalk, and snapped at flies. The child, who was regarded as the mascot of Brine's Rip Mills, was greeted with a fire of solemn chaff, which he received with an impartial urbanity. "Oh, quit coddin' the kiddie, an' don't try to be so smart," growled Long Jackson, the Magadavy river-man, lifting his gaunt length from a pile of axe-handles, and thrusting his fist deep into his trousers' pocket. "Here, Zeb, give me a box of peppermints for Woolly Billy. He hain't been in to see us this long while." He pulled out a handful of coins and dollar bills, and proceeded to select a silver bit from the collection. The sight was too much for Woolly Billy, bursting with his secret. "I know where there's lots more money like that," he blurted out proudly, "in a hole in a tree."