the dead man's face down in there, with a wet cloth over it, and his shroud on.  I tucked the money-bag in under the lid, just down beyond where his hands was crossed, which made me creep, they was so cold, and then I run back across the room and in behind the door. The person coming was Mary Jane.  She went to the coffin, very soft, and kneeled down and looked in; then she put up her handkerchief, and I see she begun to cry, though I couldn't hear her, and her back was to me.  I slid out, and as I passed the dining-room I thought I'd make sure them watchers hadn't seen me; so I looked through the crack, and everything was all right.  They hadn't stirred. I slipped up to bed, feeling ruther blue, on accounts of the thing playing out that way after I had took so much trouble and run so much resk about it.  Says I, if it could stay where it is, all right; because when we get down the river a hundred mile or two I could write back to Mary Jane, and she could dig him up again and get it; but that ain't the thing that's going to happen; the thing that's going to happen is, the money 'll be found when they come to screw on the lid.  Then the king 'll get it again, and it 'll be a long day before he gives anybody another chance to smouch it from him. Of course I _wanted_ to slide down and get it out of there, but I dasn't try it.  Every minute it was getting earlier now, and pretty soon some of them watchers would begin to stir, and I might get catched--catched with six thousand dollars in my hands that nobody hadn't hired me to take care of.  I don't wish to be mixed up in no such business as that, I says to myself. When I got down stairs in the morning the parlor was shut up, and the watchers was gone.  There warn't nobody around but the family and the widow Bartley and our tribe.  I watched their faces to see if anything had been happening, but I couldn't tell. Towards the middle of the day the undertaker come with his man, and they set the coffin in the middle of