"It's all right, mon vieux," he said with an encouraging smile, "and it's very good. How far from the railway?"
"About six mile." Fisette's voice was unusually dull.
"And you have it all staked and marked and dated?"
"Yes, I'm not one damn fool."
Clark laughed outright. "Of course not—but listen—you remember when you found the iron last year what I told you?"
"You told me to keep my mouth shut. I keep it."
"That's right. And now I want you to keep your mouth open."
Fisette gasped. "What you mean?"
"I mean this. You told nobody about the iron, now you go and tell everybody about the gold. Shout about it. The more you tell the better. The whole town can prospect on our concession if they want to. I hope every one of them will find gold. I'll come out myself next week and see what you've turned up, and of course you get for it what I gave you for the iron last year. Au revoir, mon vieux, and when you go to town, talk—talk—talk! But just wait a minute in the outside office."
Fisette backed silently out, his dark brow pinched into puzzled wrinkles. He had expected his patron to take the samples and stare at them and then at him with that wonderful look he remembered so well and could never forget; a look that had made the breed feel strangely proud and happy. He had often seen it since when, quite alone in the woods, he peered through the gray smoke of his camp fire and imagined his patron sitting just on the other side. And now he was to go into St. Marys and do nothing but talk! He shook his head doubtfully.