That Van had attached them to himself in a largeness of heart by no means warranted by their worth was a conviction at which anyone must promptly arrive.  They were lovable old scamps, faithful, honest, and loyal to the man they loved—­but that was all that could be stated.  Perhaps it was enough.  As partners with whom to share both life and fortune they might have seemed impossible to many discerning men.

Beth sat down on a rock, near Gettysburg.  Someway she, too, liked the three old chaps of whom work had made three trademarks.  Old Gettysburg began to sing.  The words of his song, halted by grunts as he shoveled, were, to say the least, unexpected: 

  The frog he swore he’d have a ride,
        (Shovel)
    With a rinktum bolly kimo;
  Sword and pistols by his side,
        (Shovel)
    With a rinktum bolly kimo. 
  For lunch he packed a beetle bug,
        (Shovel)
    With a rinktum bolly kimo;
  Tucked inside his tummy snug,
        (Shovel)
    With a rinktum bolly kimo.

  Kimo, karo, pito, garo,
    Kimo, bolly mitty kimo. 
        (Shovel)
  Shing-shang hammyriddle, allibony, ringtang,
    Folderolli bolly mitty kimo. 
        (Three shovelings and some meditation)

  The frog he rode a slimy eel,
        (Shovel)
    With a rinktum bolly kimo. 
  The sun made his complexion peel,
        (Shovel)
    With a rinktum bolly kimo. 
  The frog’s legs went to join a fry,
        (Shovel)
    With a rinktum bolly kimo. 
  The eel became a juicy pie,
        (Shovel)
    With a rinktum bolly kimo.

        (Chorus)

Napoleon looked up at the end of the song and spat upon his hands.

“Gett,” he said placidly, “I think that’s a lie—­metaphorical speakin’.  Ain’t mad, are you?”

Gettysburg made no response.  He merely shoveled.

One of the sluices, weakened by a leak that had undermined its pinning, fell from place, at the farther end of the line.  Old Dave went down to repair it.  Napoleon took advantage of his absence to come to Beth, with an air of imparting something confidential.

“Splice my main brace,” said he, with his head on one side, quaintly, “wasn’t that a blasphermous yarn old Dave was givin’ us about the wind blowing that log chain away a link at a time?  Old son of a gun!”

Beth was inquisitive.

“Why do you call him a son of a gun?”

Napoleon scratched his head.

“Well, you see, Dave’s mother held up his father with a Colt forty-five and makes him marry her.  Then along comes Dave.  I reckon that makes him a sure enough son of a gun.”

Beth said:  “Oh.”  She turned a little red.

“Yep, good old cuss, Dave is, though.  No good for a seafearing man, however.  He could never learn to swear—­he ain’t got no ear for music.”

He returned to his shovel.  He and Gettysburg worked in silence for fifteen minutes.  Old Dave returned and joined them.  Gettysburg tuned up for another of his songs, the burden of which was the tale of a hen-pecked man.