“Is this the Government Assay Office?” queried Luther Barr as they drew rein and dismounted.
“Reckon so,” replied the dandified clerk with a languid air.
“Oh, you reckon so, do you?” was the impatient reply. “Well, kindly bestir yourself a little. I wish to file a claim to a mine.”
“Yep—Got ther papers all made out regilar?”
“Yes, here they are. We’ve gotten them all right and correct. I guess there’ll be no trouble about that part of it, eh, Reade?”
“I guess not,” answered the individual addressed, tying his horse to the hitching bar in front of the assay office.
“All right, gentlemen,” at length remarked the clerk, getting to his feet, “I guess if you come inside we can fix you up.”
“Say, partner,” put in the sheriff, “yer don’t mind my askin’ you a question, do yer?”
“Not at all,” beamed Luther Barr, who was in high good humor, “ask a dozen.”
“Wall, is this yar mine yer goin’ ter locate the ‘Lost Mine’ that old Jared Fogg, who disappeared, used ter own?”