A bottle of smelling salts, however, and about a quarter of a bottle of brandy worked wonders, and the moment he regained consciousness the loser shook his hand and even congratulated him. More astonishing still, all the happy possessors of the white beans were the centre of an admiring and cheerful crowd of well-wishers, none of whom showed the least signs of jealousy or resentment.
"Bravo!" cried Gran'pa. "You're real sportsmen, gentlemen—every one of you! I withdraw the rash statement I made a few minutes ago, and ask your pardon."
He got it—in the form of more cheers.
We were beginning to congratulate ourselves on this happy and unexpected termination, when a little bald-headed man of eighty or ninety summers emitted a high-pitched wail of dismay.
"My bean!" he cried. "Somebody's stolen it! . . . Stop thief! . . . Ah-h!"
He uttered the last syllable triumphantly, having grabbed the supposed miscreant by the coat collar.
There was a short scuffle, in which some half-dozen other old men took part and a yell of pain from the victim as someone bent back his clenched fist. Instead of a white bean, however, a red one fell from his open palm—a complete vindication of his innocence, which drove the loser of the bean to frenzy.
"I've been robbed!" he shouted hysterically. "It is shameful! Where is the blackguard?"
Naturally enough, no one answered his query. To add to the difficulty, nobody was certain exactly who were the winners and who were the losers before the theft had occurred.
"This is disgraceful!" said Gran'pa. "We must register the names of the winners at once, or there'll be still more pilfering."