“But a gold mine. Gee! You’ll be like a Noo York millionaire, with dollars an’ dollars to blow in at the saloon.”
Again Peter shook his head. His face seemed suddenly to have grown old. His eyes seemed to lack their wonted lustre. He sighed.
“I don’t want the dollars,” he said. “I’ve got dollars enough; so many that I hate ’em.”
Elia gaped at him.
“You got dollars in heaps?” he almost gasped. “Then why are you lookin’ for more?”
Peter buried his face in a large pannikin of coffee, and when it emerged the questioning eyes were still upon him.
“Folks guess you’re cranked on gold, an’ need it bad,” the puzzled boy went on. “They reckon you’re foolish, too, allus lookin’ around where you don’t need, ’cause there ain’t any there. I’ve heerd fellers say you’re crazy.”
Peter laughed right out.
“Maybe they’re right,” he said, lighting his pipe.