"You may be sure I'll do that, Pablo. When Bill comes here, he'll receive a warm reception."
That night after supper, as the miners sat about the long table in the low, open room, smoking their pipes and cigarettes and enjoying the grateful coolness of the evening, Jim Tracy, the foreman, came into the room and cried:
"Well, boys, you've been working right hard to open up this yere old mine, an' I appreciates it, if the young man what owns the property don't. It's a long distance to town, an' ye can't all git off together to have a leetle blow, so I has brought ye some good whisky, and I perposes that you all takes a drink on me."
Saying which, he produced two big quart bottles and held them above his head, so the lamplight fell upon them.
Instantly two shots sounded through the place, and the bottles were smashed in the foreman's hands by a pair of bullets, the glass flying and the liquor spattering over him.
In through the doorway at the opposite end of the room stepped Frank Merriwell, a pistol in each hand.
"Keep your hands up and empty, Jim Tracy!" he said, in a commanding tone. "It will be unhealthy for you if you lower them!"
Behind Frank were Bart, Jack, and Ephraim, with Pablo hovering like a shadow still farther in the rear.
Tracy was astounded.