her, hanging round and boarding every emigrant wagon that came
through the Pass. She didn't come--only the news that she was
dead." He paused and nudged his chair still closer--the heads were
almost touching. "They say, over in the Bar"--his voice had sunk
to a complete whisper--"that it was a lie! That she ran away with
the man that was fetchin' her out. Three thousand miles and three
weeks with another man upsets some women. But HE knows nothing
about it, only he sometimes kinder goes off looney-like, thinking
of her." He stopped, the heads separated; Collinson had appeared
at the doorway, his melancholy patience apparently unchanged.

"Grub's on, gentlemen; sit by and eat."

The humble meal was dispatched with zest and silence. A few
interjectional remarks about the uncertainties of prospecting only
accented the other pauses. In ten minutes they were out again by
the fireplace with their lit pipes. As there were only three
chairs, Collinson stood beside the chimney.

"Collinson," said Uncle Dick, after the usual pause, taking his
pipe from his lips, "as we've got to get up and get at sun-up, we
might as well tell you now that we're dead broke. We've been
living for the last few weeks on Preble Key's loose change--and
that's gone. You'll have to let this little account and damage
stand over."

Collinson's brow slightly contracted, without, however, altering
his general expression of resigned patience.

"I'm sorry for you, boys," he said slowly, "and" (diffidently)