"No, he didn't know about such things; didn't care a cuss anyhow." And the two men went away as if a flea or two had left the dog and hopped into their ears. They went to another man. "Don't see the point, blowed ef I do. Six months, seven months, eight months, ten months, all along there, I 'spose. The great Washington, Cæsar, Horace Greeley, all sich big-bugs, it might take one, two, three years. That little cuss to-day only a month or two, I reckon. It's all right, I reckon. It ain't my funeral, any how. And what the devil you come botherin' of me for, anyhow? Ef yer don't want to drink yerself, let a fellow alone what does!" And he shook them off with a gesture of the hand and a jerk of the head that meant a great deal more than he had said.
There were not so many fingers up now as before. The question evidently had been settled in the minds of the men fully in favor of the little Half-a-pint. Few understood these things at all, fewer still cared to go into particulars at this time, and the question would keep till they had more leisure and less whisky.
Finally, the hatchet-faced man went round and sat down opposite the man who sat behind the little silver faro-box by the pine-table, and began to whisper in his ear. The good-natured genius, half-gambler, half-miner, who had played the little prank with the salmon and gold-dust, had had a dull night of it, and most like even for that reason was a little out of humor. At all events he did not answer at once, but set down his little silver box, and, taking up his cards, began to spin them one by one over the heads of the men, or through the crowd as it opened, back at the old bull-dog that lay on the bunk on the bags of gold under the blankets, and half whistling to himself as he did so.
The hatchet-faced man, fearing the man had forgotten his presence and his revelation, leaned over again and began to whisper and to count on his fingers.
Then he looked sharp at the gambler and began again; "Hits my 'pinion that it's that boy, Billie Piper."
"How many months did you say?" asked the gambler at last.
"Seven or eight at the furthest."
"And how many had it ought to be?"
"Twelve!" And the smile that was sweet and devilish played about the thin blue lips below the sharp and meddlesome nose.
"And are you a family man?"