Trove walked to the bench and stood a moment looking out of a window.
"Strange!" said he, returning presently with tearful eyes. "Do you remember the date?"
"'Twas a Friday, 'bout the middle o' September."
Trove turned, looking up at the brazen dial of the tall clock. It indicated four-thirty in the morning of September 19th.
"Were there any with him when he died?"
"Yes, the tavern keeper—it was some kind of a stroke they told me."
"And your boss—did he go to California?" Trove asked.
"He sold the farm an' went to Californy. I worked there a while, but the boss an' me couldn't agree, an' so I pulled up an' trotted fer home."
"To what part of California did Thompson go?"
"Hadn't no idee where he would stick his stakes. He was goin' in t' the gold business."