“There you go, over on you' back, like snap' turtle; I see where you lay there before. What the dev'! I say!” Bonny, much excited with his find, extracted a rusty tin tobacco-box from the hole, pried open the spring lid and drew forth its contents: a discolored canvas bag bulging with coin and whipped around the neck with a leather whang. The canvas was rotten; Bonny supported its contents tenderly as he brought it over to the old man.
“Oncle, I ask you' pardon for tappin' that safe. Pretty good lil' nest-egg, eh? But now you got to find her some other place.”
“That don't belong to me,” said the old man indifferently.
“Aw—don't be bashful! I onderstan' now what you los'. You dig here—there—migs up the scent. I just happen to step on that stone—ring him, so, with my boot-heel!”
“That ain't my pile,” the other persisted. “I started to build a fire on that stone two nights ago. It rung hollow like you say. I looked and found what you found—”
“And put her back! My soul to God! An' you here all by you'self!”
“Why not? The stuff ain't mine.”
“Who is she? How long since anybody live here?”
“I don't know,—good while, I guess.”
“Well, sar! Look here! I open that bag. I count two hondre' thirteen dolla'—make it twelve for luck, an' call it you' divvee! You strike her first. What you say: we go snac'?”