"This is one of our promising gulch claims," was saying John Gregory. And—"Good morning to you, Pat," he addressed. "How are things looking with you today?"
"Foine, thank ye, John," assured Pat.
"Come out a minute, Pat. Mr. Greeley, I want to make you acquainted with Mr. Casey, a leading citizen of the Gulch. And Mr. Richardson—Mr. Casey. And Mr. Villard—Mr. Casey." Pat, who had clambered out, removed his hat and rather bashfully shook hands.
So that was Horace Greeley, was it; the editor of the New York Tribune! He didn't look like an editor of a big paper such as the Tribune. Rather, with his square hat and his rosy face surrounded with a fringe of short white whiskers, and his roly-poly figure, as he sat his mule, his legs sticking straight out, he looked more like a church deacon or a prosperous "back East" farmer.
Mr. Richardson, who probably was that reporter for the Boston Journal, as spoken of by Mr. Villard in Denver, was a tall, wiry man with soft hat and full brown beard, and wore a Colt's revolver.
"These gentlemen are out from the East, Pat," continued John Gregory, "to see if it's true that we're all starving hereabouts and that the gold is in our eye. Mebbe you've no objection to their doing a little investigating on their own account down in your hole there."
"Faith, Oi'd be proud if their Honors would touch their fingers to me dirt," asserted Pat. "Would they loike to get down in, or shall Oi pass a bit up to 'em?"
Mr. Greeley and Mr. Richardson and Mr. Villard dismounted and peeked in.
"About how much are you washing out a day, Pat?" invited Green Russell.
"Oh, a hundred dollars a day, more or less, dependin' on the clane-ups," answered Pat.