"I know it. That worries me, too."
Having given his promise, Kelley seemed eager to carry the plan through successfully. He was sorry for the youth, but he was sorrier for the mother who was coming with such fond pride in the success of her son—for Morse confessed that he had been writing of his "mine" for a year.
He outfitted his new partner with a pair of well-worn miner's boots and some trousers that were stained with clay, and laughed when Fred found them several inches too long.
"You've got to wear 'em. No! New ones won't work. How would it do for you to be so durn busy at the mine that I had to come down and bring your people up?"
"Good idea!" Then his face became blank. "What would I be busy about?"
"That's so!" grinned Kelley. "Well, let's call it your day off and I'll be busy."
"No, I want you to come with me to the train. I need you. You must do most of the talking—about the mine, I mean. I'll say you're the practical miner and I'll refer all questions about the business to you. And we must keep out of the main street. I don't want mother to even pass the place I've been operating in."
"What if they decide to stay all night?"
"They won't. They're going right on. They won't be here more than five or six hours."
"All right. We'll find 'em dinner up at Mrs. Finnegan's. If they're like most tourists they'll think the rough-scuff ways of the Boston House great fun. By the way, how old is this little sister?"