LIII
Spring came. Their mine made its first shipments of ore and was no longer a paper success. The balance-sheet for the first month after shipments had begun made Wilmot whistle. He couldn't believe the figures, and worked till late into the night, trying to find some dreadful error. Finding none, finding that with the help of others he had really made good at last, the rough life began to lose its savor. If he still owed money it could be but for a short time. He was free as air--free to do what he pleased--almost to spend what he pleased.
"Barbs," he said, the next morning, "the mine's no good; we've got to tackle something else."
"What do you mean, no good? Why, you said--"
"I know what I said. The mine is a success. Aside from what your father has, you're a rich woman. And I'm a rich man. And that's the difficulty. There's no use working our hearts out over a thing that's a definite success--is there? No fun in it. We've got to look round for something else. Now we are always going to have money--that's certain. What are we going to do with it? Think of something hard--something worth while."
"Oh," she said, "I can't--can you?"
"No," he said almost angrily, "I can't. And that's the rotten side of money. That's the stumbling-block for everybody who succeeds in collecting a lot of it. The distribution is infinitely harder than the collecting. I think we'd better pull up stakes, go back to New York, and think hard."
"Yes. Let's."
"I'd like to have a talk with Blizzard."
Barbara's eyebrows went high with surprise.