A Romance of Riches.
by George Surrey.
Originally published in The Novel Magazine (C. Arthur Pearson, Ltd.) vol.2 #10 (Jan 1906).
The story of a miner who came into a great fortune and how he spent it.
The coach which once a fortnight tore and groaned its way into Blood Creek Camp had departed, leaving behind a well-fed-looking gentleman dressed in rather shabby black clothes, one newspaper, and two letters.
The former had been sent out to convert such denizens of Blood Creek Camp as could or would be saved, by an enterprising Gospel society, which flourished because its secretary and treasurer was a gentleman of acute business instincts, and a personality so winning that pious, elderly ladies with more money than was good for them were attracted to him and his schemes as flies are to treacle.
The newspaper and one of the letters were for Charley McDonell, prospector, cowboy, anything that turned up, and, for the time being, successful gold miner and part owner of the Kicking Kate claim.
The other letter was for Hans Schwab, commonly called Dutchy, storekeeper of Blood Creek Camp, informing him that his wife had decided she could no longer remain separated from her dear husband, and hoped to be reunited to him within five days.
The coach had been gone two hours; the Reverend Peter Smith was still seeking a suitable lodging; Hans Schwab had not left the saloon whither he had repaired immediately to drown his sorrow; and Charley McDonell remained sitting on the chunk of rock where he had settled more or less comfortably to read his letter, which was from an old chum.
The letter was lying on the ground at his feet, the newspaper had been opened and spread across his knees, on which rested the bare elbows of his sinewy, sun burnt arms. Both hands supported his chin, and his clear, black eyes were gazing straight across the uninviting, scrubby, sandy plain, as if, beyond the filmy greyness which shrouded the meeting-place of blue sky and yellow earth, he could see something that enchained his sight.
A glance at the letter would have revealed the cause of his abstraction; the perusal of a short paragraph in the newspaper, a paragraph indicated by two huge blue pencil crosses, might have given a hint of what he could see beyond, where sky and earth merged into one. Let us see what the letter contained.
Daily Tribune,
Fifth Avenue, New York.
May 14th, 1899.
My Dear Old Chap,-Letter writing's not much in my line, never was, and, seeing I'm getting so much pen-driving now as work, I can't afford to use a great deal as play. But I must just scrawl a line or two to congratulate you on your good luck, and hope you're alive to enjoy it. The news-rag I'm sending along will tell you all about it. Don't fall over yourself when you read it. But there, boy, I know you better than that. When you're coming through call in at above, and we'll yarn a bit. I'm not the big, almighty boss here who runs the show and the best part of the earth outside our four walls, before whom Europe quakes, and from whom the President takes his cue; but I've got a fair job, and they won't fire me if I take an hour off once in a way.—Yours as ever,
Martin Duffey.
McDonell read the letter through, with a smile on his bronzed face, and a slightly puzzled look in his eyes. It was good to hear from Duffey again. He would never forget the wild-headed, true-hearted Irishman, who, for three long years, had shared with him the vicissitudes of a wanderer's life on the Western plains. Since then Duffey had gone back to civilisation and prosperity, and he—well, he couldn't complain; the Kicking Kate claim had already given him twelve or fifteen thousand dollars as his share, and there was more to come.
The thoughts and memories evoked by the sight of Duffey's sprawling handwriting somewhat obscured McDonell's perception of what the letter told him; he had another look at it.
"Congratulate me upon my good luck!" McDonell muttered. "Newspaper tell me all about it! Why, the strike isn't rich enough to have made any sort of noise in the papers. What the dickens can he mean?"
McDonell slowly tore the wrapper off the newspaper as the best means of answering the question. Unfolding it, he turned over half-a-dozen leaves before finding anything to explain Duffey's words. At last two huge crosses, marked in blue pencil above and below a paragraph, amongst the "personal" advertisements, caught his eye:
Wanted. — Antony Charles Edward McDonell-McDonell, last heard of in Arizona in 1893, and still believed to be in the West, is hereby informed that by the death of Sir Alexander Hugh McDonell-McDonell, Bart., on January 12th, 1898, he, the said Antony Charles Edward McDonell-McDonell, becomes heir to the baronetcy, and to the entire estate of the deceased. Any person giving such information as shall lead to the finding of the said Antony Charles Edward McDonell-McDonell shall be suitably rewarded.—Abercrombie and Smith, Writers, the Grassmarket, Edinburgh, Scotland.
Such was the advertisement, and McDonell read it through three times, once hurriedly, and twice slowly and carefully. Then he gave a long whistle, laid the newspaper on his lap, and allowed his mind to wander, gazing straight before him.
Looking through the clear, dry atmosphere beyond the horizon, he could see a grim old building, half-mansion, half-castle, set against a clump of fine, dark pine trees on the steep side of a Scottish valley. Beyond towered mighty mountains; in front shone the clear waters of a tiny loch, and on a mossy terrace sloping from the house two figures were walking.
One of the men was tall, thin, flinty-faced, and elderly; hard and sharp of feature, with cold eyes and relentless mouth, a type of the hard, successful man of business; the other a mere boy, not yet out of his teens; black-eyed, and curly haired, with mutinous lips and determined jaw, and whose restlessness of manner, and quick actions, suggested innate dislike of control and the authority of convention.
They were talking, and the conversation did not appear to be pleasant. Plainly in McDonell's ears sounded the words that fell from the elder man's lips. "You must please yourself, Antony," said the dry, severe voice; "either you enter my office and settle down to a life of serious business, or you leave the house altogether, and with it, please remember this, all hope of succeeding to my fortune and lands when I am gone."
And he could hear the answer the boy gave, hotly and without hesitation, saying that which he believed and felt: "Then I will go, uncle; a life of trading, of wretched adding up of senseless columns of figures, and keeping books in order, a life of mean, petty money-grubbing, I should hate. I can't do it! I won't do it!"
Then came the uncle's answer, given without the slightest sign of anger, and in the same measured, emotionless voice: "You have made your own choice. Very well, we will both abide by it. You must leave here on Friday."
The scene faded away. Twelve years ago it had been enacted, and now the boy, by a turn of Fortune's wheel, had become the possessor of all that his uncle had warned him he had lost. Well, well, the ways of Providence are inscrutable. The uncle had evidently relented, and a feeling of remorse stirred McDonell's heart.
Presently his mind swung round to the contemplation of what this stroke of Fortune meant to him, and as he thought a feeling of elation possessed him.
No more toil under the burning sun, a-saddle or a-foot, with lariat and whip, pickaxe or beetle; nevermore the torturing misery of feeling lips and throat become as leather, because the water had given out, and the muddy pool at which relief was looked for had been found baked and trampled into a patch of broken earth; never again for him the tormenting pangs of hunger, the miseries of deferred hopes, the forced companionship of men frequently not one degree better, and too often infinitely worse, than the animals that required their employment.
All was now over. Henceforward he would be with men and women of cultivated minds, people of nice manners and intellectual attainments, dressed in beautiful and immaculate clothes, and with soft, refined voices.
He would lie soft and long, eat and drink his fill of delicately flavoured dishes and choice wines—his own will, and not necessity, should be his master. He would begin to live, and life should be one long, continuous round of happiness and pleasure, and no more a mere existence, scarcely better than that of a beast of burden. He was thankful the chance had come to him at last.
Charley McDonell got up from his rocky seat, and, carefully folding letter and newspaper, stuffed them into the pocket of his dirty flannel shirt. Then, with slow, half-hesitating step, very different from his usual brisk, active stride, he moved off towards the hut which, for the past nine months, had been the home of himself and his three partners.
For the first time it occurred to him that the shanty was a hideous, miserable, comfortless erection, unfit for the habitation of a human being. A man was frying bacon as he stepped inside; two other men, seated on empty boxes, with their legs stretched out, were smoking furiously. For the first time the combination of smells aroused in him a sudden and novel feeling of disgust.
"So it's an afternoon's holiday ye've been takin'," observed the cook with mock severity, as McDonell sat down on a box, and, by force of habit, dragged pipe and tobacco from his pocket and commenced to fill up. He recollected himself when half way through, hesitated, continued the operation, and struck a match.
"It's becoming lazy ye are, it's my opinion," the cook continued. "An' since ye've done no work, 'tis only half-rations ye ought to be havin'! Isn't that right, Uncle?"
One of the smokers, a tall, grizzle-bearded old miner, from California, nodded. "No work, no pay," agreed the fourth man, with a covert glance at McDonell, who made no response to his companions' joking remarks.
Tim O'Brien tipped the slices of bacon from the frying-pan into a discarded gold washing pannikin, placed the latter on the rough table, and planked down beside it a big loaf of bread and a huge pot of tea.
Uncle Bill and the fourth man, Jake Danvers, dragged their seats forward with out awaiting any invitation, and helped themselves liberally.
"Shure, an' don't take it so much to heart, me jewel!" exclaimed Tim. "We didn't mane t' shtarve ye," for McDonell, once more lost in thought, had made no attempt to join the hungry party. "Come to, or th' mate'll be cold; an', though cold bacon is good, hot bacon is betther."
"Sorry, boys! I was thinking!" And the new baronet roused himself and dragged his box to the table. He was becoming conscious that he had had nothing to eat since mid-day.
That something had happened to their chum was obvious, but with the delicacy of the Westerner, who, whatever the vices he may possess, rarely numbers active curiosity among them, the three miners asked him no questions. Moreover, they were better employed; five hours' work with pick, shovel, and sieve is provocative of an appetite that requires close attention.
"Boys!" McDonell suddenly exclaimed, when the meal was well-nigh over—"boys, I'll be leaving you very soon!"
The appearance of a real, unmistakable ghost could not have produced a more complete or instantaneous effect upon his companions. They stopped eating, looked up from their tin plates with eyes and mouths wide open, and stared at him as if they were not sure they had heard aright.
The Irishman found his tongue first. "I hope," he said anxiously, "that your insurance policy is made out correctly, so that I may collect the money without any throuble; some of those companies is very sthrict when th' next heir doesn't happen t'be a blood relation."
"What's ailin' ye, Charley?" inquired the less imaginative Danvers.
"'Tis a dacent funeral ye shall have, darlin'!" continued the irrepressible Irishman. "We'll have th' whole camp t'march afther ye, an I'll play th' Dead March meself with a pick-handle and a fryin'-pan."
McDonell burst out laughing. "You idiots, I'm not going to die!" he cried.
"Then what th' divil are ye goin' to do?" Tim inquired in an injured voice. "How else'll ye be lavin' us?"
"Leave here! Go away, I mean!"
"What for?" one of the three asked blankly. And not for all his new found wealth could McDonell have put his reasons into words.
"Ain't we treatin' yer square? Or hev yer struck a richer claim, Charley?" California Bill asked.
"No, no! 'Tisn't that, Uncle," said Tim, laying his hand on the old man's shoulder. "I know what it is, an' this very evenin' I'll be riding over to Lannigan to fetch a docther, for 'tis in me mind that it's an asylum th' poor fellow is goin' to. Let me feel yer pulse, darlin'."
"Quit foolin', Tim! I'm serious—straight, I am! I mean I'm going to leave here, leave the camp, leave America. I'm going home, back to England, that's the truth, and I'm going because I've got to go. I'm sorry, boys, and I don't want you to forget it; but go. I must."
"Well, I'm hanged!" exclaimed Jake Danvers fervently, and the expression was echoed by his two amazed friends.
"An' what th' blazes have yer got to go for?" inquired Danvers, in a sudden gust of anger. "Ain't been doin' nothin' wrong, have yer'? 'Tisn't th' sheriff that's after yer, is it? For if it is, Charley, yer've only to take Kicking Kate yonder and git, smart as yer can; she'll carry yer like a bird—no hoss here that'd touch her. And we'll tell th' sheriff all right where t'go huntin' yer when he does come, won't we, pards?"
"Don't be a durned fool, Jake!" said Uncle Bill with asperity. "Just's if Charley's been monkeyin' with th' law. He ain't th' boy t'ave been knockin' folk down an' murderin or robbin' them. 'Tain't nothin' ter do with th' law, is it, Charley? I know what it is," and the old man twisted his weather-beaten face into an alarming grin, and winked solemnly at McDonell.
The latter had suddenly discovered there was something in his throat, something that hindered him speaking, and made him catch his breath, while his eyes, probably owing to the tobacco smoke, were moist and blinking.
"Begorra!" shouted the Irishman excitedly, "so that's th' form yer lunacy has taken, is it? Ye outrageous young divil, an' why didn't I think of it meself? Oh! th' wickedness of ye, Charley, 'tis amazin'. An never a word of it t'any of yer pals. I'm ashamed of ye!" And in high dudgeon Tim turned his back on the supposed backslider from the righteous path of bachelordom.
He swung round again in an instant. "And what is her name, Charley, boy?" he demanded. "Shure, I'm prepared to shwear she's th' prettiest colleen in Colorado, or th' wide, wide world, an' we'll dhrink her health this very minute!" He reached to the corner, where stood the big, earthenware whiskey jar, but Charley pulled him back.
The something in McDonell's throat had become larger, and it was in a choking voice he cried: "No, no, no! Sit quiet, Tim Don't be a fool, man Ye're wrong"—the Irishman's face fell—"ye're all wrong! It isn't a girl, and it isn't the sheriff, Jake! It's just this!" And with a queer laugh he lugged the New York paper from his pocket and threw it down on the table.
The three pairs of eyes caught the blue crosses immediately, and all stared at them as if fascinated. "Begorra!" came in a whisper from the Irishman.
"Why th' blazes don't yer read it?" California Bill demanded with sudden violence, jolting O'Brien's shoulders. "Yer know Jake an' me can't spell a word. Read it!"
Taking the paper between his trembling fingers, Tim read aloud the marked advertisement, his voice shaking so that the words came out in gasps and snatches.
"Well, I be hanged!" said Jake impressively, when Tim was finished.
"Waal, I be hanged!" said Uncle Bill with equal fervour.
There was no work doing on the Kicking Kate claim the next morning, for the four partners were making the thirty-mile journey to Lannigan, a town possessing a bi-weekly coach connection with the railway.
Breakfast had been a quiet meal, each having felt that conversation was superfluous, if not impertinent, and during the ride the party was no more loquacious. Even the Irishman's volatile spirits were subdued.
Between McDonell and his comrades a sudden reserve had sprung into existence, a barrier unexplainable, intangible, yet nevertheless apparent. The heartiness, the spirit of good fellowship of yesterday, though not departed, was obscured by a certain new-born respect and diffidence Uncle Bill, Jake, and O'Brien felt, and unconsciously showed, towards their partner.
As their horses moved quickly along the trail, two abreast, each of the three was thinking to himself that it was not Charley McDonell they were riding with, but the English baronet, Sir Antony Charles Edward McDonell-McDonell; not their chum, the man with whom they had worked shoulder to shoulder for months, but a gentleman with whom they had some sort of acquaintance; not one of themselves, but a stranger. McDonell had early detected the trend of their thoughts, and the discovery hurt him, but he said nothing.
At the spot where the trail broadened into the beaten track leading to Lannigan Uncle Bill suddenly pulled up his horse.
"Reckon we'll, make our adoos right here," he said.
The others reined in, too, and the three faced their comrade.
"You'll come with me down to Lannigan and have a parting drink, surely?" said McDonell.
Jake and Tim looked at California Bill, and the old man shook his head.
"Guess we'd rather not," he said in a slow, steady voice, his eyes fixed on his horse's ear-tips.
McDonell looked hurt at the refusal. "Just as you like," he said "but—"
"'Tain't that we don't wanter," interposed Jake Danvers hastily, "but yer see—we'll be–I mean, we'd like to, but yer've got t'git yer place on th' coach, an' there ain't much time, an it'd seem—there, durn it, I can't tell yer what we do mean, but—" And Jake's face turned a brickdust red, and the expletives with which he relieved his feelings and completed the sentence were lost in his stubbly beard.
"I think I know," McDonell said gravely. "Boys, you're right; short farewells are best."
There was an awkward silence, the men fidgeted with their reins, not knowing what to say, wishing to get the business over, yet hating the idea of parting.
The old miner from California at last looked up and held out his huge, bony fist.
"Four years we've been together, lad," he said, and, in spite of himself, his voice shook a trifle, "an', come good luck or bad, ye've always been th' best of pals. I've never had one like yer, an I guess I'm too old ter go lookin' f'r another now. One grip for every year, lad," and he wrung McDonell's hand four times.
"Three years me," said Danvers laconically, following the old man's cue, and three times he and McDonell gripped.
"An' is it that I'm to contint meself with but one, just because it's only fourteen months since ye set eyes on me for th', first time, when ye picked me out of th' cañon with a broken leg an an empty stomach," protested O'Brien, with ludicrous plaintiveness. "Begorra! Not if I know it!" And, seizing one of McDonell's hands between his two, he squeezed it with mighty force.
"Good-bye, Charley, an' th' best of good luck to ye, an' when ye're at home an' rollin' in riches, ye might sometimes give just a thriflin' thought to th' ould claim an' th' three fools at work on it. Come, boys!" And, mistrusting further delay, the Irishman, tears in his eyes, galloped furiously back along the trail, followed by Uncle Bill and Jake.
It was at a very slow pace McDonell rode into Lannigan. Once there he wrote a brief note to his late chums, telling them he was not relinquishing his share in the Kicking Kate claim, but that, as he would not be assisting to work it, he would be content with an eighth share of the profits, which he would be glad if they would take charge of for him.
* * * * *
In the great breakfast-room of the magnificent London mansion which Sir Alexander Hugh McDonell-McDonell had built for himself, and enjoyed scarcely three months, the master of the house was sitting at breakfast.
The table was tastefully laid, glass, silver, and flowers adorned its wide expanse, the dishes were tempting, and a couple of servants were in attendance, but Sir Antony had no appetite. After a few mouthfuls, his plate was pushed away, and he picked up the first of a pile of letters that stood at his elbow.
The Duchess of Southtown would be delighted if Sir Antony McDonell-McDonell would attend her reception. The letter was thrown aside, and an expression of disgust came into his face.
The past twelve months had wrought a great change in Antony, a change apparently that was not an improvement. His cheeks had lost most of the healthy bronze they had worn when he was handling a pick for eight or nine hours a day; there were lines around his mouth, and at the corners of his eyes, which had lost their old snap and sparkle. His former expression of light-heartedness and vigour had given place to one in which weariness and listlessness were written. He seemed dull, tired, bored, as if he found life a mere duty, and not a very pleasant one, beside.
One after another the letters, cards, and notes were glanced at and tossed away; one only interested him, and with it in his hand he walked towards the fireplace. Twelve months before the burning heat of a Texan summer and the piercing cold of a Dakota winter would have affected him but little; to-day, although it was late in May, he found the warmth of the fire grateful.
As he walked across the room it was apparent the change that had taken place in him was not confined to his face or his mind. One who had known him before his return to England would have detected a roundness and drooping of his shoulders; his step was less elastic and vigorous. Physically, at least, the man had degenerated.
The letter he held in his hand was from his cousin, and merely stated that the writer would call at eleven o'clock. A few minutes after eleven had struck the butler announced Mr. Alexander McDonell, and that gentleman walked in, laid the tip of his fingers in his cousin's hand, and flung himself into an arm-chair, looking sulkily into the fire.
"Well!" There was a trace of amusement in Sir Antony's voice, and the sulky expression on his cousin's face deepened. "Well!" The lad had a distinct grievance against his cousin, a grievance he never allowed himself to forget. He considered that he himself ought to be—and, if he had had his rights, would be—the master of the house, and everything else included in his late uncle's estate.
"Same old story?"
"Same old story."
There was silence for a few minutes; then the younger McDonell burst out passionately:
"Of course it's the same old story. How the dickens can it be otherwise? What is a beggarly three hundred a year to me when, ever since I can remember, I have had the belief that in time I should be come the owner of Sir Alexander's millions, and was educated accordingly? And if—" The recollection of his errand checked him, and he looked ashamed.
"And if I hadn't turned up, the millions would be yours, you were going to say," Sir Antony said quietly.
The lad made no reply.
"Well, there's something to be said from your point of view, certainly. Why should I turn up, and step in and appropriate what you considered yours? But it was no fault of mine," Sir Antony continued. "I guess that Providence fixed it up for me as a lesson."
The lad took out his cigarette case, selected a cigarette, and lighted it. He stared at the fireplace, his face crimson with shame and rage.
"How much is it this time, Alec?" Sir Antony asked gently.
"A couple of hundred!"
"And that is all—everything?"
"All! Good Heavens! No! It would want a thousand at least to start me square again."
"And suppose you started square, how long would you keep so?"
"Not a month!" was the candid answer. "How could I on such a beggar's pittance as mine?"
Sir Antony took his cheque book from a drawer, dipped his pen in the ink, then stopped. His cousin was watching him intently from under his eyelids.
"Say, Alec, have you ever thought of getting married?" Antony asked, as if the thought had suddenly occurred to him. The boy laughed disagreeably. "What's the good of a poor brute like myself thinking of marriage? If I can't support myself, is it likely I could support two?"
"Yet it might be the making of you."
"Probably But I think that making will have to be deferred—or abandoned. It's no use discussing anything so impossible. Why don't you marry, yourself? You'd only have to pick and choose, for there's precious few women would say 'No' to a man with a couple of millions, a town house, a seat in Derbyshire, and a castle in Scotland." And Alec laughed again.
Sir Antony wrote out the cheque and handed it to his cousin. Alec McDonell glanced at it, read the amount, and seemed surprised. "You're a good chap, Tony, deuced good!" he said. He looked round, and his eyes saw the clock. "What, half past eleven! Why, I ought to be at Hurlingham at twelve. Well, tata, old chap! Thanks very much for this. See you at Lady Clayton's ball to-night, I suppose?" and, again offering his cousin his finger tips, he hurried from the room.
Something in the apology for a handshake awoke certain memories in Sir Antony's mind; he looked at his fingers.
"Typical of Alec, typical of them all," he muttered. "No real warmth, no sincerity, no genuineness in any of them. I have the money, therefore I am worth scraping acquaintance with. I wonder if the Duchess of Southtown would be so pleased to see me next week if I owned no more than the clothes I stand up in. Or would Lady Clayton, or any of those charming ladies and gentlemen whose cards and invitations fill yonder basket, request my attendance at their balls and dances and suppers, polo and shooting matches, if, financially speaking, I wasn't worth a cent?
"I guess not. It's money, not worth, that this crowd loves; bonds, not brains, it worships; and the richer the man the greater the regard it has for him. Everybody's insincere, artificial, mercenary; not one has a single generous or charitable thought. Each one for himself is their motto.
"How tired one becomes of them when one has been used to men who are not afraid to say just what they think; who, if they hate a man, tell him so, and if they like him, will not hesitate to give their lives for him. Ah!" he sighed, "I was better off a year ago than I am now. The pity is, I didn't know it."
Early in the afternoon Sir Antony awoke from his reverie, rang the bell, and ordered his carriage. A strange idea had taken possession of him, an idea that had driven the weariness from his face and the dulness from his eyes. As the brougham hurried citywards, the grave and sober coachman was scandalised to hear his master laughing heartily.
What Sir Antony had to say to his solicitors was almost sufficient to provoke in those hard-headed, practical men of the world an attack of heart failure. When, two hours later, he left their office, he was walking with the gay and buoyant step of a schoolboy whose holidays have commenced.
"Five thousand a year!" exclaimed Alec McDonell incredulously to Messrs. Fawcett & Long, who had wired him to meet them at their office the day after his cousin's hurried visit. "My cousin has settled five thousand a year on me! You must be joking?"
"Not at all, Mr. McDonell. It is very extraordinary—very extraordinary indeed, but it is quite correct. Mr. Long was with us all the time, and will indorse what I say," Mr. Fawcett replied. "And the fact is only one of many extraordinary things Sir Antony did yesterday. You will be pleased to know, sir, that Sir Antony made his will before he left us, and, subject to specific bequests to a number of charities and hospitals, the whole of his estate is willed to your children should you marry."
"But where is my cousin? Where has he gone?"
"That is more than we can tell you, sir. Sir Antony merely said he was going away; he might come back again or he might not, and he wanted to leave everything in order in case he did not return. That is all we can tell you."
"What a rum chap!" soliloquised Alec McDonell, as he hailed a passing cab. "But I'm glad of that five thousand!"
* * * * *
There was a new driver on the coach working its way from Sheridan to Blood Creek, and the man seemed mightily amused by the impatience and interest displayed by the solitary passenger as the unprepossessing mining camp was reached.
"Reckon yer don't know this yer locality, mister," he observed, "or yer wouldn't be in no such blamed hurry to get there."
The passenger laughed. He was a dark-eyed man, with a skin burnt too deeply by the sun to ever lose its bronzed colour.
"Why not?" he inquired.
"See when yer git there," the driver answered grimly. "Eastern folk call it picturesque, beautifully wild, an' such like durned foolishness. Let 'em have t'live in these parts a spell. I guess they'd talk different. Ugh! Give me a town, I says," and he expectorated contemptuously.
"I've had twelve months' town life, that's why I'm here now," the passenger said quietly.
The driver stared. He was surprised, but said nothing more. When the coach came to a standstill outside Ramon Alvarez's Hotel (by courtesy) in Blood Creek Camp, he was still further surprised. As the passenger swung himself from his seat, a tall, gaunt, bearded man lounging outside the hotel suddenly straightened himself, came forward a pace, hesitated, and then uttered a tremendous yell.
"Whoo-oo-oop-e-e! Charley boy! Durn it, it is ye, boy, ain't it? I told 'em ye'd come back. I told 'em so! I knew it!"
There was a mist across the sunburnt man's eyes, but he found the other's bony fist and gripped it.
"Sure thing, Uncle Bill, it's me!" he cried. "And I'm here to stay. Where's Jake and Tim?"