Though the term was a new one to Ben, he could not fail to understand it.
"In the State of Connecticut."
"That's where they make wooden nutmegs," said the miner, "isn't it?"
"I never saw any made there," answered Ben, smiling.
"I reckon you've come out here to make your fortin?"
"I should like to," answered Ben; "but I shall be satisfied if I make a living, and a little more."
"You'll do it. You look the right sort, you do. No bad habits, and willin' to work hard, and go twenty-four hours hungry when you can't help it."
"Yes."
"Where'll you go first?—to the mines, I reckon."
"Yes," answered Ben, reflecting that he would be most likely to find Richard Dewey at some mining-settlement.