"You mustn't get too much," Wallie admonished, noting the size of the drink Pinkey was pouring for himself.
"I've never had too much. I may have had enough, but never too much," Pinkey grinned. "I don't take no int'rest in startin' less'n a quart."
"I hope he'll have the decency to be ashamed of himself when he finds out we know what he did to us. I shouldn't think he'd want to look us in the face," Wallie declared, virtuously.
"He won't git a chanst to look in my face for some time to come if we kin lift this cache."
Together they filled the grain sack they had brought and carefully replaced the plank, then, staggering under the weight of the load, made their way to a gulch, buried the sack, and marked the hiding-place with a stone. With a righteous sense of having acted as instruments of Providence in punishing selfishness, they returned to town to follow such whims as seized them under the stimulus of a bottle of Mr. Tucker's excellent Bourbon.
The constable had been asleep for hours when a yell—a series of yells—made him sit up. He listened a moment, then with a sigh of resignation got up, dressed, and took the key of the calaboose from its nail by the kitchen sink.
"I'll lock 'em up and be right back," he said to his sleepy wife, who seemed to know whom he meant too well to ask.
Under the arc light in front of the Prouty House he found them doing the Indian "stomp" dance to the delight of the guests who were leaning from their windows to applaud.
"Ain't you two ashamed of yerselves?" the constable demanded, scandalized—referring to the fact that Pinkey and Wallie had divested themselves of their trousers and boots and were dancing in their stocking feet.
"Ashamed?" Wallie asked, impudently. "Where have I heard that word?"