“Well, I reckon they’ll steer clear of Nugget Camp for a while,” Bug Eye stated. “It would sure please the old coot if we got his gold back for him, though. Where’s them eats?”
It was past mid-day, and the miners decided to knock off and return to the tent. When Teddy suggested to Bug Eye that he lock his flivver or anchor it to a tree, the puncher replied:
“Boy, Columbus hisself couldn’t move that machine! She’s sot, that’s what she is! An’ there she’ll stay till I makes a fortune here.”
“Figgerin’ to move it before Christmas?” Nick asked.
“Uh-huh! Long about Thanksgiving I’ll solder on my boots an’ head for the East, if I can get somebody to help carry my nuggets.”
When Bug Eye was told how Roy had made his “strike,” the cowboy whooped in amazement.
“Is that the custom here?” he demanded. “You got to be buried before you hit pay dirt? Then here’s the little man what starts a new system. Me, I leans down an’ picks ’em up. Yay, bo!”
They were in the tent now, sitting before a meal of Silent’s concoction. Nick, who was nearest the entrance, suddenly turned, a fork full of beans half way to his mouth.
“Who is it?” he called.
The tent flap parted and a man stuck his head in. None of them had seen him before.