“Here is to Annie and Rayder––may 208 your posterity become presidents and wives of presidents.”
“Drink hearty,” said Rayder, emptying his glass, which he had filled to the fullness of Amos’ out of compliment.
“Charley, bring up a box of perfectos,” he shouted. “You may then lock up and go home.”
The glasses were again drained and the two black crows chattered until the streets were growing quiet for the night. Supper was forgotten in the love feast of Amos and Rayder.
“Do you know, Amos, I always did love you just like a brother?”
“Here, too, Rayder, you know the first time we saw each other, I sez to myself––I sez––there is a man that would stick to a friend through thick and thin.”
“You are that kind of a man yourself, Amos, is the reason you have a good opinion of me. I never had a friend in distress yet that I didn’t help him out.”
“That’s right, Rayder, that’s right. Them’s the qualities that go to make up 209 nature’s noblemen. Lord, if I had a known you years ago we’d a bin millionaires––my knowledge of mines and your sagacity. That’s what counts, and you never fail in your estimate of men, either. Lord, you was born under lucky stars.
“Take another drink, Rayder, take a cistern full. ’Taint often we meet on auspicious occasions like this, and we won’t go home ’till mornin,’ and we won’t go home ’till morning, hic––hurrah for Annie, Rayder, and a million outer the mine.”
“An’ she shame short of share of prosperity to my brother Amos,” and Rayder took another drink.