As they sped toward the landing, he looked Billy over once more. “I have it,” he declared. “You need a change of climate to get rid of that malaria. Just show me this little old mining claim of yours, Bill, and then hike for God's country. Three months up there will put you right again, and by the time you get back, we'll be about ready to weigh the first cleanup.”
Billy shook his head. “I'd like to mighty well, Jack,” he replied, “but I just can't.”
“Huh! I suppose you don't think I'm equal to the task of straightening out this concession of yours and making a hummer out of it, eh?”
The young fellow looked across at him sheepishly. “Mine?” he jeered. “Who's talking about a mine. I'm thinking of a girl!”
“Oh!”
“Some girl, Johnny.”
“I hope she's not some parrakeet,” Webster bantered. “Have you looked up her pedigree?”
“Ah-h-h!” Billy spat over the side in sheer disgust. “This is an American girl—born here, but white—raised in the U. S. A. I've only known her three weeks, but—ah!” And Billy kissed his hand into space.
“Well, I'm glad I find you so happy, boy. I suppose you're going to let your old Jack-partner give her the once-over and render his report before you make the fatal leap—eh?”
“Sure! I want you to meet her. I've been telling her all about you, and she's crazy to meet you.”