After supper, the first night of their return, when the benches were still drawn up around the table, and the big brothers, tired with their long ride, were pulling at their corn-cob pipes, the little girl went up to the eldest and touched him timidly on the arm.
"Well, youngster," he said, "how many gophers have you snared since we've been gone?"
The little girl got red suddenly, and hesitated before she spoke. "Sixty," she answered, half under her breath.
The biggest brother took his pipe out of his mouth in mock astonishment. "Sixty!" he exclaimed. "Why, geewhitaker! you'll break the bank if you don't look out!"
The eldest brother put his hand into his pocket and took out some change. "Get the string," he said, "and here's your money."
The little girl looked at the coins mournfully, and then around the circle, and stepped back a few paces. "You won't b'lieve me when you see it," she said. She went out and came back presently, holding up the tails.
The eldest brother took them out of her hand, and she stood silently by while he counted them. When he had finished, he looked at her crossly. "Sixty!" he sneered. "You haven't caught no such thing! Here's only twenty." He waved the brushes in the air, and the little girl trembled visibly. "Did you think I'd pay you for sixty," he continued, "when you ain't got the tails to show for 'em?"
The little girl trembled more than ever. "Honest," she said; "honest! We caught sixty—we did, truly—"
"Where are their tails, then? where are their tails?" asked the eldest brother, impatiently, shaking the string so violently that some of the brushes fell off. "You say you did—but what have you got to show for 'em?"
The little girl came closer, her eyes wide and earnest. She was breathing hard and she lowered her voice as she answered.