Uncle Bill was suspected of knowing something—of having business—of his own—and keeping it to himself. A display of friendly interest in his affairs having received no encouragement and various lines of adroit cross-examination having been successfully blocked, Ore City was forced to regard his stubborn reserve as a hostile act for which it was tacitly agreed he should be disciplined. Therefore it withdrew its own confidences and company. Uncle Bill was shunned, left alone to enjoy his secret. The heavy hand of Public Opinion was upon him. Socially he was an outcast. Conversation ceased when he approached as if he had been a spy. Games of solo, high-five, and piute went on without him and in heated arguments no one any longer asked his views.
This latter offense however was only an aggravation of the real one which dated back to the memorable occasion when Wilbur Dill had asked his opinion of the “secondary enrichment.” It was held that a man who would tell the truth at a time like that was a menace to the camp and the sooner he moved on the better.
In the early spring the old man had disappeared into the mountain with powder, drills, and a three months’ grub-stake. He had told no one of his destination, and when he had returned the most he would say was that he had “been peckin’ on a ledge all summer.” He sent samples of his rock outside but did not show the assays. He wrote letters and began to get mail in blank, non-committal envelopes and added to the general feeling of exasperation by always being at the desk before even the clerk had time to make out the postmarks. Oh, he was up to something—that was certain—something that would “knock” the camp no doubt. They wouldn’t put it past him.
If Uncle Bill felt his exile or harbored resentment at being treated like a leper he was too proud to give any sign.
There had been but little change in the Hinds House in a year. Only a close observer would have noted that it had changed at all. There was a trifle more baling-wire intertwined among the legs of the office chairs and a little higher polish on the seats. The grease spots on the unbleached muslin where Ore City rested its head were a shade darker and the monuments of “spec’mins” were higher. The Jersey organ had lost two stops and a wooden stalagmite was broken. “Old Man” Hinds in a praiseworthy attempt to clean his solitaire deck had washed off the spots or at least faded them so that no one but himself could tell what they were. The office was darker, too, because of the box-covers nailed across the windows where a few more panes had gone out. Otherwise it might have been the very day a year ago that Judge George Petty had lurched through the snow tunnel jubilantly announcing the arrival of the stage.
Only this year there was no snow tunnel and the Judge was sober—sober and despondent.
His attitude of depression reflected more or less the spirit of the camp, which for once came near admitting that “if Capital didn’t take holt in the Spring they might have to quit.”
“Anyway,” Yankee Sam was saying, lowering his voice to give the impression to Uncle Bill at the window that he, too, had affairs of a private nature, “I learnt my lesson good about givin’ options. That were our big mistake—tyin’ ourselves up hand and foot with that feller Dill. Why, if a furrin’ syndicate had walked in here and offered me half a million fer my holdin’s in that porphory dike I couldn’t a done a stroke of business. Forfeit money in the bank after this for Samuel. But if ever I lays eyes on that rat—” Yankee Sam glared about the circle—“you watch my smoke! Mind what I tell you.”
“What about the deal he give me on The Prince o’ Peace?” demanded Lannigan. “Look what he cost me! The money I spent on them stamps writin’ to know what was doin’ would a kept me eatin’ for a month. Maybe you think because I don’t roar much I ain’t angery. If I had the price I’d hire somebudy regalar to help me hate that feller!”