"He ought to pay you the same he pays Terry. That's three dollars a day for you two, and four dollars a day for me, and some days I make five—one day I made seven, and on Sundays I'm sure of six—! Why, there's a gold mine in itself. We'll be flying high," encouraged Harry.
George braced up. But—
"Huh!" he grunted. "'Tisn't a pound a day, though."
"Terry's coming," piped Virgie.
So he was—not only coming, but bringing his tools with him, and also a decidedly disgusted aspect.
"Don't you work any more?" called George. "Doesn't he want me?"
"Naw!" growled Terry, throwing down his pick and spade. "He's busted. And he doesn't want any more pies, either. Here are the last two. He can't eat 'em—says he has indigestion."
"Well, don't step on them," warned Harry. "We can eat them. But how is he 'busted'?"
"It isn't his claim," answered Terry. "That is, maybe he doesn't own it at all. Some men he was arguing with this morning say it's theirs. So nobody'll work there till things are settled up. And Pat's as mad as a hornet. They say all the dust in his oyster-can is theirs, too, because he got it out of that hole."
"Whew!" mused Harry. "The Extra Limited & Co. seem to be more limited than ever. And that's hard luck for Pat."