Old Twitchett was in a very bad way. He must have been in a bad way, for Crockey, the extremely mean storekeeper at Bender, had given up his own bed to Twitchett, and when Crockey was moved with sympathy for any one, it was a sure sign that the object of his commiseration was going to soon stake a perpetual claim in a distant land, whose very streets, we are told, are of precious metal, and whose walls and gates are of rare and beautiful stones.

It was Twitchett\'s own fault, the boys said, with much sorrowful profanity. When they abandoned Black Peter Gulch to the Chinese, and located at Bender, Twitchett should have come along with the crowd, instead of staying there by himself, in such an unsociable way. Perhaps he preferred the society of rattlesnakes and horned toads to that of high-toned, civilized beings—there was no accounting for tastes—but then he should have remembered that all the rattlesnakes in the valley couldn\'t have raised a single dose of quinine between them, and that the most sociable horned toad in the world, and the most obliging one, couldn\'t fry a sick man\'s pork, or make his coffee.

But, then, Twitchett was queer, they agreed—he always was queer. He kept himself so much apart from the crowd, that until to-night, when the boys were excited about him, few had ever noticed that he was a white-haired, delicate young man, instead of a decrepit old one, and that the twitching of his lips was rather touching than comical.

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 wan\'t 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 fore-finger 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."

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............