‘El Dorado,’ I remarked; ‘why that’s the original prospector’s claim.’
My visitor nodded, saying, ‘An’ I’m No. 2 South.’
‘Ward and party?’ I inquired, referring again to my memos.
‘That’s it. I’m Ward.’
‘Well, then, Mr Ward, I want to hear that story you hinted at just now. Kindly touch that bell at your elbow. Thanks.’
It may have been only fancy, but I thought that between blooming Gretchen journeying to and fro with [267] ]hot water, tumblers, sugar, etc., etc., and my lucky reefer glances passed betokening a more than casual acquaintance.
‘Yes, Gretchen, you may as well leave the kettle.’
I am trying to air my German, but fail lamentably, judging from the expression on the girl’s full, fresh-coloured features as she struggles to avoid laughing. Even my visitor smiles. Everything is German here—bar, luckily, the beds. Outside the wind howled and beat against the curtained windows, and the rain fell dully on the shingled roof, and the roar of the Broken River came to our ears between the storm gusts.
Inside, the fire flickered and fell, sending deep shadows over the pine-panelled walls and the grave handsome face of my companion, the first fruits of whose labour shone sullenly under the shaded lamplight. From a distant room rose and died away faintly the chorus of some song of the Fatherland.
‘Now,’ said I, as Gretchen finally closed the door, ‘now for the story.’