"She 'll be Mrs. Maurice Rodaine. She loves 'er father enough to do it—after 'er will's broken. And I don't care 'oo it is; there ain't a woman in the world that's got the strength to keep on saying no to a sick father!"
Again Robert Fairchild filled an oil cup, again he tinkered about the pumps. Then he straightened.
"How are we going to work this mine?" he asked shortly. Harry stared at him.
"'Ow should I know? You own it!"
"I don't mean that way. We were fifty-fifty from the minute you showed up. There never has been any other thought in my mind—"
"Fifty-fifty? You're making me a bloated capitalist!"
"I hope I will. Or rather, I hope that you 'll make such a thing possible for both of us. But I was talking about something else; are we going to work hard and fight it out day and night for awhile until we can get things going, or are we just going at it by easy stages?"
"Suppose," answered Harry after a communication with his magic mustache, "that we go dye and night 'til we get the water out? It won't be long. Then we 'll 'ave to work together. You 'll need my vast store of learning and enlightenment!" he grinned.
"Good. But the pumping will last through tomorrow night. Can you take the night trick?"
"Sure. But why?"