Archie B. trotted off, striking a path leading through the wood. It was a near cut to the log school house which stood in an old field, partly grown up in scrub-oaks and bushes.
Down in the wood, on a clean bar where a mountain stream had made a bed of white sand, he stopped, pulled off his coat, counted his gold again with eyes which scarcely believed it yet, and then turned handsprings over and over in the white sand.
This relieved him of much of the suppressed steam which had been under pressure for two hours. Then he sat down on a log and counted once more his gold.
Ozzie B., pious, and now doubly so at sight of his brother's wealth, stood looking over his shoulder:
“It was the good Lord done it,” he whispered reverently, as he stood and looked longingly at the gold.
“Of course, but I helped at the right time, that's the way the Lord does everything here.”
Then Archie B. went down into his coat pocket and brought out a hollow rubber ball, with a small hole in one end. Ozzie B. recognized his brother's battery of Gypsy Juice.
“How—when, oh, Archie B.!”
“-S-h-h—Ozzie B. It don't pay to show yo' hand even after you've won—the other feller might remember it nex' time. 'Taint good business sense. But I pumped it into Bonaparte at the right time when he was goin' round an' round an' undecided whether he'd take holt or git. This settled him—he got. The Lord was on the monkey's side, of course, but He needed Gypsy Juice at the right time.”