“Farrell,” said I, “you are working a rich claim; I see fortune written on your face.”
“Nothing of the kind,” he answered; “I have just finished a tolerable spell of digging, it is true; and shall start for home to-morrow. But it ain’t that; I have better news still.”
“Better news? What can it be!”
“I’ve seen Foster, and my wife. Ha! ha! they’ve been living in sight of my tent for the last four months; and I never knew they were there until two days ago!”
“Then you have seen Foster?”
“Certainly, I have!”
“What did you do to him?”
“Nothing. Fate is giving me all the revenge I want; and I would not interfere with her designs—not for the world. In saying that Foster is the most miserable object I’ve seen for many years. I speak only the truth. He has a rheumatic fever, and hasn’t been able to stir out of his tent for six weeks. He will probably never go out of it again—that is, alive. Now, I call that fun; isn’t it?”
“Not much for Foster, I should think. But how came you to find them?”
“I was in my tent, one morning, when I heard a woman talking to my partner, who happened to be outside just by the door. The woman was wanting to get some washing to do. She said, that her husband had been a long time ill; and that they hadn’t a shilling to live upon. I thought her voice sounded familiar to me; and, taking a peep out of the tent, I saw at once it was my runaway wife! I waited till she walked away; and then, slipping out, I followed her to her own tent. She went inside, without seeing me; and then I stepped in after her, and stood quietly surveying the guilty pair.