On the way to their boarding house, Weston pointed out the office of the Utah Mining and Development Company. It was a one-story building, covered with tin pressed in imitation of stone, with a large enclosed yard in the rear. As they passed the dark structure, it was almost like meeting an old friend to read on the big, plate-glass window the words, “R. C. Cook, Manager,” in brilliant gold letters.
“Them fellers,” remarked Weston, in passing, “don’t make no great splurge, but they’re the Rothchilds er the Stan’ard Oil Company er the Pierpont Morgans o’ this land. An’ when ye speak o’ the firm yer goin’ to work fur, ye don’t have to say nothin’ but ‘Company’—ever’body knows.”
Weston and Roy were just finishing a hot breakfast of tortillas and chili-con-carne about eight o’clock the next morning—the boarding house was an adobe structure with an interior court and conducted in Mexican style—when there was a clutter of pony hoofs on the sandy street without and an energetic, middle-aged man, much better dressed than those Roy had seen the night before, came striding into the court where the new arrivals were dining.
“Well, Sink,” he exclaimed in a quick, pleasant voice, “thought you’d surprise me, eh? Howdy?”
He reached out his hand, and looked inquiringly at Roy.
“Had to come on business,” answered Weston, with a chuckle. “Brung my friend hyar. I kind o’ thought I’d stay awhile lessen ye’ve changed yur mind.”
“Job’s open. Glad to have you,” added the newcomer. “Heard you blew in last night—from one o’ the boys.”
“Shake hands with Mr. Osborne,” interrupted Weston, by way of introducing Roy and the stranger. “Roy, this is Mr. Cook, o’ the ‘Company.’”
The boy sprang forward and clasped Mr. Cook’s hand vigorously.
“I see you don’t know who I am,” he exclaimed with a smile. “I reckon they didn’t send you word. I’ve been sent out here by Mr. Atkinson, of the American Aeroplane Company, to work for you.”