“Three star brandy,” said Abe, decisively. “I used to come over of a night when he was bad and sit by him. Poor chap! he had a wife and two children in Putney. He’d rave, and call me Polly, by the hour. He was cleaned out, hadn’t a red cent; but the boys collected rough gold enough to see him through. He’s buried there in that shaft; that was his claim, so we just dropped him down it an’ filled it up. Put down his pick too, an’ a spade an’ a bucket, so’s he’d feel kinder perky and at home.”
Miss Carrie seemed more interested now.
“Do they often die like that?” she asked.
“Well, brandy kills many; but there’s more get’s dropped—shot, you know.”
“I don’t mean that. Do many men die alone and miserable down there, with no one to care for them?” and she pointed to the cluster of houses beneath them. “Is there anyone dying now? It is awful to think of.”
“There’s none as I knows on likely to throw up their hand.”
“I wish you wouldn’t use so much slang, Mr. Durton,” said Carrie, looking up at him reprovingly out of her violet eyes. It was strange what an air of proprietorship this young lady was gradually assuming toward her gigantic companion. “You know it isn’t polite. You should get a dictionary and learn the proper words.”
“Ah, that’s it!” said Bones, apologetically. “It’s gettin’ your hand on the proper one. When you’ve not got a steam drill, you’ve got to put up with a pick.”
“Yes, but it’s easy if you really try. You could say that a man was ’dying,’ or ’moribund,’ if you like.”
“That’s it,” said the miner, enthusiastically. “’Moribund’! That’s a word. Why, you could lay over Boss Morgan in the matter of words. ’Moribund!’ There’s some sound about that.”