[CHAPTER XIII]
PETE WRITES HOME
“Of course,” said Allan, “we’re not terribly poor, but it’s going to make a good deal of difference to us.”
The new term was three days old and Allan and Pete were sitting in front of the stove in Pete’s study. The stove was a recent addition to the furnishings, and installed more in deference to his friends’ demands than from any desire of his own. Pete didn’t mind a little cold; just so long as he could find enough water under the ice in the pitcher to wash with, he was satisfied. But Allan and Hal and Tommy made disparaging remarks about his heating arrangements and ostentatiously kept their hats and coats on while visiting him, and so Pete bought a base-burner and a half ton of coal.
“What mine is it?” asked Pete.
“The Gold Beetle. Ever hear of it? It’s out in your State.”
“Is it at Rico?” asked Pete.
“Yes, that’s the place. Didn’t you say you were there last summer?”
“Yes, and I know—something about the mine.” Pete looked thoughtfully at the flames dancing behind the mica. “Fact is,” he continued, “the old man is interested in it.”
“Really? Then don’t you think it will be all right? He wouldn’t have anything to do with a poor mine, would he?”