“I haven’t made my own yet,” he answered slowly.
“If it rained gold pieces, you wouldn’t pick up enough to keep you going for three months. You know you are shiftless, Paul.”
“Well, perhaps I am, Martha. I can’t get up and hustle like you.”
“No, you’re not one of the hustling kind. Well, gentlemen, if you want to stay with us awhile, and don’t object to seven dollars a week each, we’ll try to accommodate you. When do you want to begin?”
“Right off,” answered Tom, upon whose olfactories the savory smell of dinner, cooking in the next room, made an agreeable impression. “The terms are satisfactory.”
So it happened that Tom and Grant became inmates of the Crambo household. The first meal satisfied them that their hostess was a most accomplished cook, and the supper seemed to them delicious.
“Have you had any gold-digging near here?” asked Tom.
“Not much. There was an old man who had a claim somewhere near where I met you, but I don’t think he made much. Finally he got discouraged and went away. That’s a good while since.”
“Evidently he doesn’t suspect anything,” thought Grant. “All the better. We shan’t have any competitors.”
“Then you don’t think he took much gold away with him?” he said aloud.