It was five o'clock in the sleepy summer afternoon, and the flies buzzed drowsily¹ 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 proprietor², 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 liking³ the smoke, stayed outside on the plank⁴ sidewalk, and snapped at flies. The child, who was regarded as the mascot⁵ of Brine's Rip Mills, was greeted with a fire of solemn chaff⁶, which he received with an impartial⁷ urbanity.
 
"Oh, quit coddin' the kiddie, an' don't try to be so smart," growled⁸ 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 peppermints⁹ 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 blurted¹⁰ out proudly, "in a hole in a tree."
 
During the past twelve months or more there had been thefts of money, usually of petty sums, in Brine's Rip Mills and the neighbourhood, and all Tug¹¹ Blackstock's detective skill had failed to gain the faintest clue to the perpetrator. Suspicions there had been, but all had vanished into thin air at the touch of investigation¹². Woolly Billy's amazing statement, therefore, was like a little bombshell in the shop.
 
Every one of his audience stiffened¹³ up with intense interest.
 
One swarthy, keen-featured, slim-waisted, half-Indian-looking fellow, with the shapely hands and feet that mark so many of the Indian mixed-bloods, was sitting on a bale of homespun behind Long Jackson, and smoking solemnly with half-closed lids. His eyes opened wide for a fraction of a second, and darted¹⁴ one searching glance at the child's face. Then he dropped his lids slowly once more till the eyes were all but closed. The others all stared eagerly at Woolly Billy.
 
Pleased with the interest he had excited, Woolly Billy glanced about him, and shook back his mop of pale curls self-consciously.
 
"Lots more!" he repeated. "Big handfuls."
 
Then he remembered his discretion¹⁵, his resolve to tell no one but Tug Blackstock about his discovery. Seeking to change the subject, he beamed upon Long Jackson.
 
"Thank you, Long," he said politely. "I love peppermints. An' Jim loves them, too."
 
"Where did you say that hole in the tree was?" asked Long Jackson, reaching for the box that held the peppermints, and ostentatiously filling a generous paper-bag.
 
Woolly Billy looked apologetic and deprecating.
 
"Please, Long, if you don't mind very much, I can't tell anybody but Tug Blackstock that."
 
Jackson laid the bag of peppermints a little to one side, as if to convey th............