“Salted Don?” repeats Claude interrogatively, looking at the old miner, and wondering at the strange expression he has made use of. “What do you mean by ‘salting’ him?”
“Don’t you know what salting a mine is?” asks Williams in return.
“Well, I fancy I’ve heard that term applied to some kind of mining swindle,” replies Claude.
“Exactly so, my lad. And after I’ve explained what ‘salting’ is, you’ll understand what ‘salting’ a boy is.” Old Williams is never happier than when explaining some mining term to a new hand who will listen patiently, and, when started on such a theme,—especially if a chance of bringing in old reminiscences occurs,—he must be allowed time to run down. Claude has already learned this much about him, so does not attempt to check his elderly friend when he sees him settle down comfortably in his saddle to begin his discourse.
“Salting a mine,” Williams goes on, “is getting rayther out of fashion; leastwise there’s a many easier ways bin invented of late years—and safer ways too, mind ye—of making a ‘wild cat’ look like a fust-class, boniefied speculation.”
“Well, tell me first what the old system, the ‘salting,’ was like,” interrupts Claude, fearful that Williams will wander yet further from his subject unless kept in the groove.
“Salting a mine, lad, accordin’ to the old way of doing business, was just firing some gold dust into a ‘face’ in order to sell out well or float a company.”
Claude remembers that Williams has already informed him that a “face” is the exposed section of a reef in the workings of a mine in distinction to the “backs,” which is that part of a lode unworked and above the lowest levels.
“There is better ways nowadays than this kind of ‘salting,’—such as using chloride of gold and the like,—but get a good syndicate together to help ye, and it will do all the dirty work for you and float anything.” Stopping every now and then to persuade his horse to walk a bit faster, Williams continues, “Some say as how the term ‘salting’ originated this way. On a new field, especially if tucker’s scarce, as it often is, there’s always a lot of hungry dogs about. They’ll steal anything they can grab hold of, from your last piece of damper to a pair of boots. Now it ain’t quite the go ter shoot these ere ‘canine tithe collectors,’—that’s what I calls ’em,—for their owner might come down and arguefy in the ‘love me love my dog’ style. So yer puts salt in yer gun, and the dog ain’t killed, but he don’t come hankering around agin where he finds he’ll only get condiments and nary a bit of meat. I don’t like to shoot any man’s dog,” observes the lecturer feelingly, “let alone a camp-mate’s, and I’m always sorry fur the brutes when they go off yelling after getting a charge of salt.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” observes Claude, who, thinking of certain appropriate lines, proceeds to quote them:—