Philip looked up with a small frown creasing itself between his eyes.
“Garth? I haven’t seen him since the night after we reached town. He is somewhere in the dives, blowing his winter’s wages, I suppose.”
Bromley’s eyes narrowed.
“And you don’t care a whoop. Is that the part of it you left unsaid?”
Philip’s answer was indirect, but none the less explicit.
“I haven’t much use for a man who begins to wallow as soon as he comes to the first available mud-puddle; and you know that is what Garth did. He was tanked full before we’d been six hours in Leadville.”
Bromley looked away and was silent for a time. When he spoke again it was to say: “It’s a convenient thing to have a good, workable forgettery, Phil. For my part, you know, I can’t help fancying that we wouldn’t be here sipping this excellent black coffee to-night if Jim Garth were taken out of the picture. However, that is probably only one of my foolish hallucinations. I’m subject to them at times. If you are quite through, suppose we call it a day and see if we can’t charter a hack to take us to the railroad. The Denver train is due to leave in less than half an hour; both of them, in fact—one over each of the two roads.”
“Which one do we take?” Philip asked, rising and feeling for his pipe.
“The one whose brass collar you were wearing a year ago,” said Bromley with a grin.
Philip took out his pocketbook and extracted from it the return portion of an employee’s pass issued to him nearly a year before, the “going” part of which he had used to the end of track at the beginning of the prospecting trip; and New England thrift was seated firmly in the saddle when he said: “Pshaw! why didn’t I think of it! I might have got this renewed and so saved my fare to Denver!”