"I'm counting on that five dollars—eight bits to a dollar, forty bits altogether. Why, it's a fortune, Bub."
He took out his knife, looked around for a stick to whittle and, finding none, put the knife in his pocket with a sigh.
"I guess Will Morrison wouldn't like it," he decided. "Put up yer money, Sairy."
Sarah withdrew the gold-piece and put a larger one in its place.
"There," she said; "let's make it ten dollars, and save time."
Bub's hesitation vanished, but he asked anxiously:
"Tain't go'n' to do no harm to them gals thet's stoppin' here, is it?"
"It is to do them a good turn that I'm sending this telegram."
"Honor bright?"
"Hope to die, Bub."