"Oh, he overheard what we said last night, or at breakfast this morning," replied Corbett.
"He wasn't here last night, and he was down by the stream whilst we were at breakfast."
"All right, old man, perhaps his 'debbil' told him. It doesn't much matter anyway. Did you see this piece in the Colonist?"
"About us? No. Read it out."
"'We understand that Colonel Cruickshank, the Napoleon of Victorian finance, the mammoth hustler of the Pacific coast, has determined to conduct those gentlemen who have bought his bonded claims to the fortunes which await them. This additional proof of the colonel's belief in the property which he offers for sale should ensure a keen competition for the one claim still left upon his hands, which we understand will be raffled for this afternoon at 4 p.m. at Smith's saloon. Tickets, ten dollars each. We are informed that amongst the purchasers of claims in the Cruickshank reserve are an English gentleman largely interested in the lumber business, and an American artist rapidly rising into public notice.'"
"What cheer, my lumber king!" laughed Chance as Corbett laid down the paper. "These journalists are wonderful fellows, but I suspect most of that paragraph was inspired and paid for by the 'mammoth hustler.' By the way, if it is true that he means to personally conduct a party to Williams Creek, it does really look as if he had some belief in the claims."
"Yes, IF he means to; but I expect that is simply to draw people to his raffle this afternoon."
"Probably; but if he were to go up to Williams Creek we might as well go up with him. You see, he has travelled along the trail before."
"Well, I'll see about that, and make any arrangements I can for getting up to Cariboo, if you will try to get our accounts settled up, Steve. I'm no good at figures, as you know."
"That's what!" replied Chance laconically; and the two young men got upon their legs and prepared to start on their day's business.