“Stop! Keep an eye on Mr. Ketchum, and tell me how many people are working in the office.”
Two hours later Jimmie came in with his pockets filled with silver. “Sold all my papers,” said he, as he fell over the coal scuttle. “Ketchum bought ’em all to get rid of me. Guess he wanted to talk to that girl he had in the office. Say, she’s a bute. Must got ’er in Denver; they don’t grow like that in dis gulch. They was a scrappin’ like married people when I went in, and he wanted to throw me out. Not on your life, I told him; I’m the devil on the Chronicle and dat gang’ll burn you up if ye monkey wid me.”
“What were they quarreling about, Jimmie?”
“O, ’bout where she was to room, an’ he told her she could sleep in de private office; an’ you ort to see her then! Mama! but she did lock up his forms for him in short order. Then she said she’d go home; but she’d like to see the mine ’fore she worked fur stock. She’s no chump. Say, he aint got no mine.”
“You think not, Jimmie?” I said to encourage him.
“Naw. I went over to the Candle office and Lute Johnson’s goin’ to cremate ’em nex’ issue.”
I learned to-day that Ketchum had been accepting money from tenderfeet, promising to issue stock, as soon as the stock-books can be printed. I learn also that the Sure Thing Mining Company has no legal existence; that the Sure Thing claim belongs to Ketchum personally.
The camp continues to produce sorrow and silver at the regular ratio of sixteen to one. Old Hank Phelan, of St. Joe, died on the sidewalk in front of the Orleans Club last night. I showed my ignorance by asking a gang who stood round the dead man, at the coroner’s inquest, who the distinguished dead might be.
“Say, pardner,” said one of the sporty boys, “I reckon you don’t ever look in a paper. Don’t know Hank Phelan, as licked big Ed. Brown, terror of Oklahoma?” And they all went inside and left me to grope my way out of the dense ignorance that had settled about me.