Judge George Petty glowered and demanded contemptuously:
“Do you know what a mine is?”
“Well,” replied Uncle Bill tranquilly, “not allus, but ginerally a mine is a hole in the ground owned by a liar.”
Yankee Sam half rose from his chair and pointed an accusing poker at Uncle Bill.
“That old pin-head is the worst knocker that ever queered a camp. If we’d a knowed you was comin’,” turning to Mr. Dill, “we’d a put him in a tunnel with ten days’ rations and walled him up.”
“They come clost to lynchin’ me onct on Sucker Crick in Southern Oregon for tellin’ the truth,” Uncle Bill said reminiscently, unperturbed.
Southern Oregon! Wilbur Dill looked startled. Ah, that was it! He looked sharply at Griswold, but the old man’s face was blank.
“We’re all entitled to our opinions,” he said lightly, though his assurance had abated by a shade, “but, judging superficially, from the topography of the country, I’m inclined to disagree.”
Ore City’s sigh of relief was audible.
Mr. Dill continued: