A small crowd of young school boys stood pressed up against the white picket fence, as they always did after school. But today was different. Mr. Bumbry was joined by a young man; not all that much older than the boys outside. The crowd whispered amongst themselves. Some recognised the new addition to the show.
"But that couldn't be Timmy, could it?" they chirped.
Timmy walked around the cottage, brush at the ready, sloshing it on the walls here and there... Mr. Bumbry stood inside, in the dark, waiting for the boy to return. After around ten minutes (a full twenty ahead of Mr. Bumbry's old time), Timmy came to a stop by the front door. He carefully placed the brush back in the pot and knocked. A moments pause, and then the old man swung the door open. He did not step out, but presented an arm. The boy obediently put the pot into the old man's hand, and Mr. Bumbry brought it back. He then held out his other arm, presenting the boy's rucksack. Timmy took it, and slung it over his shoulder. He wobbled a little from the weight, but stabilized. He then turned and walked straight for the gate, where the boys waited.
The crowd parted and scuffled away from the ancient wooden gate, making room for Timmy to pass through. As the boy walked away from the cottage, he felt the extra weight in the bag. About the same weight as a brick, he thought. A brick made of gold.