“By golly, I’m your man, then! Fork over, and call it a job!”
The strange man sprang eagerly to his feet, evidently anxious to have his services engaged.
“But,” returned the other, hesitating, “I don’t know anything about you. How do I know but you will make off with the money I give you, and never show yourself again? What is your name?”
“Well, I am a stranger in these parts, so I guess you won’t be able to find out much about me, except what I choose to tell you myself. I go by the name of Ronald Edgerton—a pretty good sounding one, I think, too. And as to my making off with your money, you’ll have to take me on trust, I guess, as I’ve nobody to back me.”
“Where did you come from?” asked the squire, wishing he could strike the man, for his cool insolence exasperated him beyond measure.
“Well, I came from the city out here; but I hail from California.”
“California!” repeated the squire, with a gasp. “What part of the State?”
“The diggins! Mighty poor diggins they were, too, for me, so I thought I’d better dig for somewhere else. But what do you say, squire—is it a trade that I go for the pictures?”
“I don’t know,” muttered the perplexed man, less and less inclined to trust the stranger.
“Better,” replied Ronald Edgerton, laconically.