Anton was still in a weak state. His lungs were affected. He was living at home with his mother, Owens having granted the boy leave on full pay until he was entirely well again.
As the mine fell more and more into its old routine, Owens found himself oftener at the hospital. The remembrance of old times was strong in him, and the mine owner seemed to renew his youth in the rude speech of the prospector, sprinkled as it was with mining terms once so familiar to his ear.
Jim's liking for his employer was rapidly growing into comradeship. He was fully conscious of Owens' delicacy in never referring to the secret and began to feel that here, at last, was a rich man he could trust. In the course of time, it was the old prospector who brought the matter up, first.
"Has Clem ever said anything more to you about my mine?" he asked abruptly.
Owens started, but he got a grip on himself at once. When he answered, it was in as casual a tone as he could assume.
"Not another word. I don't suppose he has, to anybody. He seems to know enough not to talk. You heard how he snubbed the reporter!"
"I know. I heard him. He's square, is Clem. But I ain't never yet asked him what I said, down there in the mine. It's been eatin' me, all the time I've been lyin' here. To think I kep' it quiet all these years, an' then go blurt it out, jest 'cos I was hungry!"
"You haven't any reason to blame yourself for that, you were unconscious. And, like you, I believe Clem is as straight as a string."
"Ay," agreed Jim, "he shows color in every pan (specks of gold in every handful of washed sand). I'd ha' gone West, judgin' from what he said the other day, if it hadn't been for him."
"You certainly would."