Tim McCabe was an Irishman who, when overtaken by misfortune in San Francisco, found Jeff Graham the good Samaritan, and he could never show sufficient gratitude therefor. It was only one of the many kindly deeds the old miner was always performing, but he did not meet in every case with such honest thankfulness.
Jeff clasped his hand warmly, and then looked at the smiling boys, to whom he introduced his friend, and who shook their hands. He eyed them closely, and, with the quizzical expression natural to many of his people, said:
"And these are the laddies ye wrote me about? Ye said they were likely broths of boys; but, Jiff, ye didn't do them justice—they desarved more."
"Tim is always full of blarney," explained Jeff, who, it was evident, was fond of the merry Irishman; "so you mustn't mind him and his ways."
Roswell and Frank were attracted by Jeff's friend. He was one of those persons who, despite their homeliness of face and feature, win us by their genial nature and honest, outspoken ways. No one ever saw a finer set of big, white teeth, nor a broader smile, which scarcely ever was absent from the Irishman's countenance. He shook hands with each lad in turn, giving a warm pressure and expressing his pleasure at meeting them. "I'm glad to greet ye, me friends," he said, as the whole party moved out of the way of the hurrying, bustling swarm who were rushing back and forth, each intent on his own business; "not only on your own account, but on account of me friend Jiff."
"I do not quite understand you," said Roswell with a smile.
"Well, you see, I've met Jiff before, and formed a rather fair opinion of him; but whin a gintleman like mesilf is engaged on some important business, them as are to be favored with me confidence must have their credentials."
"And you accept our presence with him as proof that he is what he should be?"
Tim gravely inclined his head.
"Do ye think I would admit Jiff as a partner if it was otherwise? Not I."