Many were the questions to be asked and answered and in consequence, it was nearly nine o’clock before breakfast was over; then Watson found himself the center of an admiring group. First of all, he was buttonholed by Jack and his laugh, hearty as the winds of his own State, made the walls ring, and all involuntarily joined.
“You ought to be a very happy man, Mr. De Vere,” he said, addressing the latter.
“I am,” Mr. De Vere replied. “Only a few years ago this beautiful city was a mere hamlet. The wonderful resources of this valley were undeveloped and no prospect of better conditions.”
He looked musingly in the direction of the mine. “Hernando came to us and proved ‘Old Ninety-Nine’ no myth—of course you know the history?” Mr. De Vere interjected.
“Yes, and Jack tells me you have in your possession one of his ears, petrified.”
“Had,” corrected Mr. De Vere, “but no curious eyes shall scrutinize what should not be an object of curiosity. Dr. Herschel pronounced it the ear of a leper, so I destroyed the poor deformed member, and the statue of ‘Old Ninety-Nine’ soon to be unveiled in Delaware Park, is such as he must have been in his prime. You must get Hernando to tell you of his life at Shushan.”
“Does he speak of it?” Watson inquired aghast. “I’ve been afraid I’d let something slip. Poor boy, poor boy!”
“Poor boy, indeed!” Jack retorted. “Why, Watson, he loves to, and the rugged hills of Shushan are to him the most beautiful spot on earth.”
“His face haunts me,” said Watson. “Does he ever say anything about Mills?”
“Often, and always with compassion.”