"Why, no-o--not to say sick, exactly. He just can't seem to get out o'
doors very handy. He's sorter on a diet, you might say."

"Too bad; too bad! He should have written his friends about it. None of
us knew a word of it. I'll write to him to-night and give him a good
scolding."

"Aw, don't ye do that!" said Pete, twisting his hat in embarrassment. "I
don't want he should know I told you. He's--he's kind of sensitive about
it. He wouldn't want it mentioned to anybody."

"It's not his lungs, I hope?"

"Naw! No thin' like that. I reckon what's ailin' him is mostly stayin'
too long in one place. Nothin' serious. Don't ye worry one mite about
him. Change of scene is what he needs more than anything else--and
horseback ridin'. I'll yank him out of that soon as I get back. And now
suppose you read his letter. It's mighty important to us. I forgot to
tell you me and, Stan, is pardners. And I'm free to say I'm anxious to
see how you take to his proposition."

"If you will excuse me, then?"

Mitchell seated himself, opened the letter, and ran over it. It was
brief. Refolding it, the lawyer laid it on the table before him, tapped
it, and considered Mr. Johnson with regarding eyes. When he spoke his
voice was more friendly than ever.

"Stanley tells me here that you two have found a very rich mine."