“If you're going over that way, you might come along and see if we can't find a contact, or copper sulphurets, or something. Even if we don't find color we may find silver-bearing galena.” Then, after a pause, “Let's see, I didn't catch your name.”
“Huh? My name's Carter,” answered McTeague, promptly. Why he should change his name again the dentist could not say. “Carter” came to his mind at once, and he answered without reflecting that he had registered as “Burlington” when he had arrived at the hotel.
“Well, my name's Cribbens,” answered the other. The two shook hands solemnly.
“You're about finished?” continued Cribbens, pushing back. “Le's go out in the bar an' have a drink on it.”
“Sure, sure,” said the dentist.
The two sat up late that night in a corner of the barroom discussing the probability of finding gold in the Panamint hills. It soon became evident that they held differing theories. McTeague clung to the old prospector's idea that there was no way of telling where gold was until you actually saw it. Cribbens had evidently read a good many books upon the subject, and had already prospected in something of a scientific manner.
“Shucks!” he exclaimed. “Gi' me a long distinct contact between sedimentary and igneous rocks, an' I'll sink a shaft without ever SEEING 'color.'”
The dentist put his huge chin in the air. “Gold is where you find it,” he returned, doggedly.
“Well, it's my idea as how pardners ought to work along different lines,” said Cribbens. He tucked the corners of his mustache into his mouth and sucked the tobacco juice from them. For a moment he was thoughtful, then he blew out his mustache abruptly, and exclaimed:
“Say, Carter, le's make a go of this. You got a little cash I suppose—fifty dollars or so?”