The very word
mine suggests to them tapping the vast treasure-house of the world, and
drawing an unlimited share--wealth lavish, prodigal, intemperate. These
two were as mad with greed at the thought of the silver mine in the
mountains as ever were forty-niners in the golden days of California, or
those more recent ignoble martyrs who strewed their bones along the icy
trails of the Klondike.
"Ye better let me look at 'em Pros," wheedled Pap Himes. "I know a heap
about silver ore. I've worked in the Georgia gold mines--and you know
you never find gold without silver. I was three months in the mountains
with a feller that was huntin' nickel; he l'arned me a heap."
The old man turned his disappointed gaze from one face to the other.
"I wish't Johnnie was here," he repeated his plaintive formula, as he
raised the handkerchief and untied the corners.
Pap glanced apprehensively up and down the street; Buckheath ran to the
door and shut it, that none in the house might see or overhear; and then
the three stared at the unpromising-looking, earthy bits of mineral in
silence. Finally Himes put down a stubby forefinger and stirred them
meaninglessly.
"Le' me try one with my knife," he whispered, as though there were any
one to hear him.
"All right," returned the old man nervelessly. "But hit ain't soft
enough for lead--if that's what you're meanin'.
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