"You've found the silver mine!" he volleyed excitedly. "Whose land is it
on? Have you got options yet? My grandpappy always said they was a
silver mine--"
"Hush!" Pap Himes's voice hissed across the loud explosive tones. "No
need to tell your business to the town. I'll bet Pros ain't thought
about no options yit. He may need friends to he'p him out on such
matters; and here's you and me, Buck--God knows he couldn't have
better ones."
The old man stared about him in a dazed fashion.
"I've got my specimens in this here bandanner," he explained
quaveringly. "I fell over the ledge, was the way I chanced upon it at
the last, and I lay dead for a spell. My head's busted right bad. But
the ore specimens, they're right here in the bandanner, and I aimed to
give 'em to Johnnie--to put 'em right in her lap--the best gal that ever
was--and say to her, 'Here's your silver mine, honey, that your
good-for-nothin' old uncle found for ye; now you can live like a lady!'
That's what I aimed to say to Johnnie. I didn't aim that nobody else
should tetch them samples till she'd saw 'em."
Himes and Buckheath were exchanging glances across the old man's bent,
gray head. Common humanity would have suggested that they offer him rest
or refreshment, but these two were intent only on what the
bandanna held.
What is it in the thought of wealth from the ground that so intoxicates,
so ravishes away from all reasonable judgment, the generality of
mankind? People never seem to conceive that there might be no more than
moderate repayal for great toil in a mine of any sort.
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