“You leave the boy be, Brother Staples,” said Mrs. Medliker sharply.  “I reckon wot’s his is hisn, spite of whar he got it.”

Mr. Staples saw his mistake, and smiled painfully as he fumbled in his waistcoat pocket.  “I believe I did pick up something,” he said, “that may or may not have been gold, but I have dropped it again or thrown it away; and really it is of little concern in our moral lesson.  For we have only his word that it was really his!  How do we know it?”

“Cos it has my marks on it,” said Johnny quickly; “it had a criss-cross I scratched on it.  I kin tell it good enuf.”

Mr. Staples turned suddenly pale and rose.  “Of course,” he said to Mrs. Medliker with painful dignity, “if you set so much value upon a mere worldly trifle, I will endeavor to find it.  It may be in my other pocket.”  He backed out of the door in his usual fashion, but instantly went over to the post-office, where, as he afterwards alleged, he had changed the ore for coin in a moment of inadvertence.  But Johnny’s hieroglyphics were found on it, and in some mysterious way the story got about.  It had two effects that Johnny did not dream of.  It had forced his mother into an attitude of complicity with him; it had raised up for him a single friend.  Jake Stielitzer, quartz miner, had declared that Burnt Spring was “playing it low down” on Johnny!  That if they really believed that the boy took gold from their sluice boxes, it was their duty to watch their claims and not the boy.  That it was only their excuse for “snooping” after him, and they only wanted to find his “strike,” which was as much his as their claims were their own!  All this with great proficiency of epithet, but also a still more recognized proficiency with the revolver, which made the former respected.

“That’s the real nigger in the fence, Johnny,” said Jake, twirling his huge mustache, “and they only want to know where your lead is,—­and don’t yer tell ’em!  Let ’em bile over with waitin’ first, and that’ll put the fire out.  Does yer pop know?”

“No,” said Johnny.

“Nor yer mar?”

“No.”

Jake whistled.  “Then it’s only you, yourself?”

Johnny nodded violently, and his brown eyes glistened.

“It’s a heap of information to be packed away in a chap of your size, Johnny.  Makes you feel kinder crowded inside, eh?  Must keep it to yourself, eh?”

“Have to,” said Johnny with a gasp that was a little like a sigh.

It caused Jake to look at him attentively.  “See here, Johnny,” he said, “now ef ye wanted to tell somebody about it,—­somebody as was a friend of yours,—­me, f’r instance?”

Johnny slowly withdrew the freckled, warty little hand that had been resting confidingly in Jake’s and gently sidled away from him.  Jake burst into a loud laugh.

“All right, Johnny boy,” he said with a hearty slap upon the boy’s back, “keep yer head shut ef yer wanter!  Only ef anybody else comes bummin’ round ye, like this, jest turn him over to me, and I’ll lift him outer his boots!”