The gambler swallowed another mouthful of pie, and rammed the rim of crust into his cheek with his thumb, and leisurely devoured it before replying.
“I don’t see that my claim has anything to do wi’ the company present,” he said at last, with a dangerous look in his half-grinning eyes. “But, seein’ Mr. Joe Brand is kind o’ curious, guess he may as well know first as last.”
“I didn’t mean no offense, Bill,” apologized the miner, flushing and speaking hurriedly.
Bill promptly became sarcastic.
“Course you didn’t. Folks buttin’ in never don’t mean no offense. Howsum, guess my claim’s on the banks o’ Sufferin’ Creek. Maybe you feel better now?” He glared down the table, but finally turned again to Sandy. “You ain’t pertickler busy ’bout now, so––ther’s thirty dollars a week says you ken hev the job. An’ I’ll give you a percentage o’ the gold you wash up,” he added dryly. “You on?”
Sandy nodded. He didn’t quite understand his friend’s game. This was the first he had heard of Bill having acquired a claim––and on the river, too. There was only one other man on the river, and––well, Zip’s claim was the joke of the camp.
He had just formulated a question in his mind, when the words were taken out of his mouth by a heavy-faced prospector further down the table.
“Wher’ ’bouts on the Creek, Bill?” he inquired.
The gambler eyed him intently.
“Quite a piece up,” he said shortly.