“I played the violin, before I went to mining. Had to quit then–it stiffens up your fingers.”
“What a pity!” she cried. “But that explains about your records–I knew you’d heard good music somewhere.”
“Yes, and I’m going to hear more,” he answered impressively, “I’m not going to blow my money. I’m going back to New York, where all those singers live. The other boys can have the booze.”
131“Don’t you drink at all?” she questioned eagerly. “Don’t you even smoke? Well, I’m going right back and tell father. He told me that all miners spent their money in drinking–why wouldn’t you come over to supper?”
She shot the question at him in the quick way she had, but Denver did not answer it directly.
“Never mind,” he said, “but I will tell you one thing–I’m not a hobo miner.”
“No, I knew you weren’t,” she responded quickly. “Won’t you come over to supper to-night? I might sing for you,” she suggested demurely; but Denver shook his head.
“Nope,” he said, “your old man took me for a hobo and he can’t get the idea out of his head. What did he say when you gave me this job?”
“Well, he didn’t object; but I guess, if you don’t mind, we’ll only do three or four claims. He says I’ll need the money back East.”
“Yes, you will,” agreed Denver. “Five hundred isn’t much. If I was flush I’d do this for nothing.”