At first he said he came down only to make Scowl Austin mad. And it did make him mad at first, but the odd thing was he got over it, and used to stop and say something now and then. This attention on the part of the owner was distinctly perilous to the Boy's good standing with the gang. Not because Austin was the owner; there was the millionaire Swede, Ole Olsen—any man might talk to him. He was on the square, treated his workmen mighty fair, and when the other owners tried to reduce wages, and did, Ole wouldn't join them—went right along paying the highest rate on the creek.
Various stories were afloat about Austin. Oh, yes, Scowl Austin was a hard man—the only owner on the creek who wouldn't even pay the little subscription every poor miner contributed to keep the Dawson Catholic Hospital going.
The women, too, had grievances against Austin, not only "the usual lot" up at the Gold Belt, who sneered at his close fist, but some of the other sort—those few hard-working wives or "women on their own," or those who washed and cooked for this claim or that. They had stories about Austin that shed a lurid light. And so by degrees the gathered experience, good and ill, of "the greatest of all placer diggin's" flowed by the idler on the bank.
"You seem to have a lot to do," Seymour would now and then say with a laugh.
"So I have."
"What do you call it?"
"Takin' stock."
"Of us?"
"Of things in general."
"What did you mean by that?" demanded the Colonel suspiciously when the Superintendent had passed up the line.