“Senor Corning give it that name when he come,” Jose explained.
“I can imagine why,” Mr. Livingston remarked to Jack. “He figured that if he didn’t make good here, the mine might be closed again. At least the company which employs him would lose its government lease.”
“With Carlos hovering around ready to swoop down, I shouldn’t think mining would be very profitable,” Ken contributed. “That old boy is a pest! Maybe Mr. Corning sent for us to help him get rid of the hill bandits.”
“I doubt it,” the Scout leader rejoined. “Corning would know how to deal with Carlos. No, I’m afraid the trouble is more serious than that.”
Eager to reach the mine, the party went on, working through vines which had overgrown the trail. After a wearisome struggle, they emerged onto a wider path which showed evidence of recent use.
Finally, they came out into a clearing which offered a view of the mine. Spread before them at the edge of a gorge were a cluster of wooden buildings with thatched roofs. The largest, and most sturdily constructed, they took to be the main office.
Weary and footsore, the arrivals left Jose in charge of the animals, and tramped into the central building. Their approach had been observed by native workmen. Yet, there had been no one to welcome them.
“Corning may be sick,” Mr. Livingston remarked anxiously.
He and the Scouts found themselves in an untidy two-room office, furnished with a couch, a desk, a safe and a filing cabinet. As they gazed about, a tall, lean man with dark moustache came in through the door they had just entered.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he greeted them, politely but without a flicker of a smile. “Anything I can do for you?”