“It’s odds but he has another try,” said Shamus. “He’s a hard man to beat when he’s set his mind on a thing.”
“Abe Durton’s the horse to win,” remarked Houlahan, a little bearded Irishman. “It’s sivin to four I’d be willin’ to lay on him.”
“And you’d be afther losing your money, a-vich,” said a young man with a laugh. “She’ll want more brains than ever Bones had in his skull, you bet.”
“Who’s seen Bones to-day?” asked McCoy.
“I’ve seen him,” said the young miner. “He came round all through the camp asking for a dictionary—wanted to write a letter likely.”
“I saw him readin’ it,” said Shamus. “He came over to me and told me he’d struck something good at the first show. Showed me a word about as long as your arm—’abdicate,’ or something.”
“It’s a rich man he is now, I suppose,” said the Irishman.
“Well, he’s about made his pile. He holds a hundred feet of the Conemara, and the shares go up every hour. If he’d sell out he’d be about fit to go home.”
“Guess he wants to take somebody home with him,” said another. “Old Joshua wouldn’t object, seein’ that the money is there.”
I think it has been already recorded in this narrative that Jim Struggles, the wandering prospector, had gained the reputation of being the wit of the camp. It was not only in airy badinage, but in the conception and execution of more pretentious practical pleasantries that Jim had earned his reputation. His adventure in the morning had caused a certain stagnation in his usual flow of humor; but the company and his potations were gradually restoring him to a more cheerful state of mind. He had been brooding in silence over some idea since the departure of Ferguson, and he now proceeded to evolve it to his expectant companions.