waited to hear old Jim resume.

"That's about all," he said, as no one spoke, "except, of course, we'll
sing some more of the hymns and take up collection. I guess we'd
better take collection first."

The congregation stirred. Big hands went down into pockets.

"Who gets the collection?" queried Field.

Jim drawled, "When it ain't buttons, it goes to the parson; when it is,
the parson's wife gits in."

"You 'ain't got no wife," objected Bone.

"That's why there ain't goin' to be no buttons," sagely answered the
miner. "On the square, though, boys, this is all for the little
skeezucks, to buy some genuine milk, from Miss Doc Dennihan's goat."

"What we goin' to put our offerings into?" asked the blacksmith, as the
boys made ready with their contributions. "They used to hand around a
pie-plate when I was a boy."

"We'll try to get along with a hat," responded Jim, "and Keno here can
pass it 'round. I've often observed that a hat is a handy thing to
collect things in, especially brains."

So the hat went quickly from one to another, sagging more and more in
the crown as it travelled.