"Isn't the lead still well-defined?" Constance dropped into the mining technicalities with the easy familiarity of one born in the metalliferous West.
"It is now; but two months ago, or thereabouts, it pinched out entirely. That is why I hibernated."
"Was the last mill-run encouraging?"
"N-no, I can't say that it was. The ore—what little there is of it—seems to grade rather lower as we go in. But it's a true fissure, and it must begin to go the other way when we get deep enough."
For a half-score of fan-sweeps Connie was silent. Then: "Is the purse growing light, Dickie? Because if it is, poppa's is still comfortably fat."
Bartrow laughed in a way to indicate that the strain was lessened for the moment. "I believe you and your father would give away the last dollar you have in the world. But it hasn't come to a fresh loan with me yet."
"When it does, you know where to float it."
"When it does, I sha'n't rob my best friends. If I have to borrow more money for development, I'm afraid the loan will be classed as 'extra hazardous.' But you said there were several things. What else have I done?"
"The next is something you haven't done. You haven't written a line to Mr. Lansdale in all these weeks,—not even to thank him for taking your foolish telegram about the Margaret Gannon crisis seriously. And he tells me he has written you twice."
"I'm a miserable sinner, and letter writing isn't in me. Is Lansdale here? I'll go and square myself in the most abject formula you can suggest."