The promoters were not buying, they were simply taking options and waiting on Murray’s tunnel; and until he drove in and actually tapped the copper ore there would be no steady boom. He had organized a company and was selling a world of stock, even using it to pay off his men: and it was whispered about that his strike was a fake, for he still 188refused to exhibit the drill cores. But whether his strike was a bona fide discovery or merely a ruse to sell stock, the fact could not be blinked that Denver and Bunker Hill had reached the end of their rope. They were broke again and Denver set out for Globe, leaving Bunker to hold down his claim.
189CHAPTER XXII
THE ROCK-DRILLING CONTEST
The main street of Globe was swarming with men, from the court-house square down past the viaduct to where the Bohunks dwelt. And the men were all miners, deep-chested and square-shouldered, but white from working underground. They were gathered in knots before the soft-drink emporiums that before had all been saloons and as Denver rode in they shouted a hoarse welcome and followed on to Miners’ Hall. There the Committee of Arrangements was sitting in state but when Denver strode in a huge form bulked up before him and Slogger Meacham grinned at him evilly. Two months before, on the Fourth of July, they had been partners in the winning team; but now Meacham had taken on with a Cornishman from Miami and they counted the money as good as won.
“What are you doing here?” demanded the Slogger insolently, “do you think you’re going to compete?”
“Danged right I am, if the judges will let me,” answered Denver shoving resolutely past; and at sight of their lost champion the committee brightened 190up, though they glanced at each other anxiously. But what they wanted was a contest, something that would bring out the crowd and make the great day a success, and they waited upon Denver expectantly.
“Well, here’s where you get left then,” spoke up Meacham with a sneer, “the entries were closed at noon.”
“Oh, hell!” cursed Denver and was turning to go when the chairman called him back.
“Just a minute,” he said, “didn’t you send in your entry? I believe we’ve got it here, somewhere.” He began to fumble industriously through a pile of papers and Denver caught his breath. For a moment he had seen his dreams brought to nothing, his last chance at the prize-money gone; but at this tentative suggestion on the part of the chairman he suddenly took heart of grace. They wanted him to compete, it had been advertised in all the papers, and they were willing to meet him half-way. But Denver was no liar, he shook his head and sighed, then turned back at a sudden thought.
“Maybe Tom Owen made the entry?” he burst out eagerly, “he was over to see me, you know.”