There was the rattle of a bunch of keys being returned to a pocket, and then the sound of footsteps coming around to the side of the shack.
“He’s going to try my game,” thought Tom.
“Well if it isn’t Mendez it’s someone who hasn’t any more right in here than I have, and I’m not in so much danger. But who can it be?”
There was a struggle at the window, the sound of a fall, as if the attempt to enter had failed. Then came muttered words of anger and pain, and they were followed by the sound of feet beating a tattoo on the side of the shack.
“He’s scrambling up to the window,” thought Tom, pulling the cot blankets farther down. A moment later someone dropped down inside the shack, and remained quietly in the middle of the floor, as though taking a survey of the place.
“Humph! It ain’t much changed from when I was here last,” a voice said, and Tom peered out from beneath a cautiously-raised blanket. The identity of the unexpected visitor startled him.
[“Old Jake Blasdell!” murmured Tom, in a whisper.] “The former caretaker! What in the world does he want here? I thought he had cleared out of these diggings.”
[“OLD JAKE BLASDELL!” MURMURED TOM, IN A WHISPER.]
Blasdell, for it was he, stood in the middle of the room of the shack where Mendez cooked, ate and slept—did everything, in fact, save conduct his small store, which was an addition.