"It's going to be a mighty big thing," he declared.
"I'm so glad," said Hazel.
"We've got a group of ten claims. Whitey Lewis and the original stakers hold an interest in their claims. I, acting as agent for these other fellows in the company, staked five more. I took in eight more men—and, believe me, things were humming when I left. Lewis is a great rustler. He had out lots of timber, and we put in a wing dam three hundred feet long, so she can flood and be darned; they'll keep the sluice working just the same. And that quartz lead will justify a fifty-thousand-dollar mill. So I'm told by an expert I took in to look it over. And, say, I went in by the ranch. Old Jake has a fine garden. He's still pegging away with the mule 'und Gretchen, der cow.' I offered him a chance to make a fat little stake at the mine, but he didn't want to leave the ranch. Great old feller, Jake. Something of a philosopher in his way. Pretty wise old head. He'll make good, all right."
In the morning, Bill ate his breakfast and started downtown.
"That's the dickens of being a business man," he complained to Hazel, in the hallway. "It rides a man, once it gets hold of him. I'd rather get a machine and go joy riding with you than anything else. But I have to go and make a long-winded report; and I suppose those fellows will want to talk gold by the yard. Adios, little person. I'll get out for lunch, business or no business."
Eleven-thirty brought him home, preoccupied and frowning. And he carried his frown and his preoccupation to the table.
"Whatever is the matter, Bill?" Hazel anxiously inquired.
"Oh, I've got a nasty hunch that there's a nigger in the woodpile," he replied.
"What woodpile?" she asked.
"I'll tell you more about it to-night," he said bluntly. "I'm going to pry something loose this afternoon or know the reason why."