"Are you going to be in the city long?" asked the merchant.
"Wall, no; I didn't calkerlate on staying any longer'n I could turn the stones into money," the man said. "My old mother lives up to Brownsville, and I thought of goin' up to make her a little visit—han't seen her fur ten years. Then I'm going back to the mines, since I han't no reason to hang around these parts now," with a bitter emphasis on the last word.
"This is Tuesday," said Mr. Cohen, reflectively; "the expert to whom I wish to subject the stones is out of town, but will be here to-morrow evening; suppose you come in again on Thursday morning."
"All right," responded the miner, as he began to gather up his glittering pebbles, though there was a look of disappointment in his eyes. "I'd ruther have got rid of 'em, fur they're kind o' ticklish things to be carrying about. Wonder if I couldn't leave 'em in your safe till Thursday?"
"Certainly, if you are willing to trust them with me," said Mr. Cohen, looking rather surprised at the man's confidence in him: "still you would have to do so on your own responsibility. I should not be willing to be held accountable for them in case of a robbery."
"Wall, then, perhaps I'd better take them along," the miner returned, as he tied the mouth of his leather pouch, and shoved it into one of his pockets.
Then drawing forth a plug of tobacco from another, he bit off a generous quid, remarking, as he did so:
"I'll be on hand Thursday mornin', I reckon. Good-day."
The merchant politely returned his salutation, and watched him thoughtfully after he shut the door and went swaggering down the street, looking in at every window he passed, in regular country fashion.
A few moments after, the merchant took his hat and also went out.