“One—two—three—fo'—five—an' all gold—my gracious, Maw!”
“That's jes' ha'f of it,” said Archie B. indifferently. “I gave the old Bishop five of 'em—fur—charity. Here's his note.”
The Deacon read it and rubbed his chin thoughtfully: “That's a different thing,” he said after a while. “Entirely different proposition, my son.”
“Yes, it 'pears to be,” said his mother counting the gold again. “We'll jes' keep three of 'em, Archie B. They'll come in handy this winter.”
“Put on yo' coat, my son,” said the Deacon gently.
“Patsy, fetch him in the hot waffles an' syrup—the lad 'pears to be a leetle tired,” said his mother.
“How many whippings did you git, Archie B.?” whispered his brother as Archie B., after entertaining the family for an hour, all about the great fight, crawled into bed: “I got three,” went on Ozzie B. “Triggers fust, then paw, then maw.”
“None,” said Archie B., as he put his two pieces of gold under his pillow.
“I can't see why that was,” wailed Ozzie B. “I done nothin' an'—an'—got all—all—the—lickin'!”
“You jes' reaped my whirlwind,” sneered his brother—“All fools do!”