"Dat's so," said Perault, who had become an ardent follower of Shock's. "Dat's so. All same lak ole boss."
"Prospector, eh?" said Ike.
"Oui. Prospector, sure enough, by gar!" replied Perault, with the emphasis of a man who has stumbled upon a great find; and the name came at once to be recognised as so eminently suitable that from that time forth it stuck, and all the more that before many weeks there was none to dispute the title with him.
All this time the Old Prospector fretted and wasted with an inward fever that baffled the doctor's skill, and but for the visits of his friends and their constant assurances that next week would see him fit, the old man would have succumbed.
"It's my opinion," said Ike, who with The Kid had made a habit of dropping in for a visit to the sick man, and then would dispose themselves outside for a smoke, listening the while to the flow of song and story wherewith his daughter would beguile the old man from his weariness; "it's my opinion that it aint either that rheumatism nor that there pewmonia,"—Ike had once glanced at the doctor's label which distinguished the pneumonia medicine from that prescribed for rheumatism,—"it aint either the rheumatism nor that there pewmonia," he repeated, "that's a-killin' him."
"What then do you think it is, Ike?" said the doctor, to whom Ike had been confiding this opinion.
"It's frettin'; frettin' after the trail and the Lost River. For thirteen years he's chased that river, and he'll die a-chasin' it."
"Well, he'll certainly die if he starts after it in his present condition."
"Maybe so, doctor. I wouldn't interdict any opinion of yours. But I reckon he'd die a mighty sight easier."
"Well, Ike, my boy," said the doctor in his gentle voice, "perhaps you are right, perhaps you're right. The suggestion is worth considering."