They clustered round the door.
“Just bought this shack and moved in, and now I’m getting me something to eat,” he explained. “Step in, if you can find room in here.”
Some of them came in, seating themselves on boxes he pushed out for them. He continued the work of getting his breakfast.
“The tenderfoot I bought this of was kind enough to tell me, after he had my cash, that the mine wouldn’t yield anything; said he’d worked at it until he was tired out, and didn’t get enough out of it to buy his smoking tobacco.”
“I allow he was slingin’ ye the straight truth,” avowed Persimmon Pete, who rested his claim to fame on the fact that he hadn’t shaved since he came into the camp, a year before.
“I reckon you know what this hill is called?” he added, after he had studied the face and figure of his host a minute.
“Well, no; I hadn’t even heard that it had a name.”
“Folly Mountain,” said Persimmon Pete.
The blond-headed stranger turned round, the frying pan in his hand.