Phil’s eyes flashed anger.
“Now, Phil, please!” put in Hannington. “Really you mustn’t quarrel. And you never know, you know;––there really have been old, good-for-nothing mines and things that have turned out wonderful.”
Phil shrugged his shoulders.
“Go to it!” he said. “It’s your funeral.”
“Oh, come now! Don’t be playing the bally Dead March over me because of a silly mine.
“Mr. Dalton, what name does this gold mine go by?”
“The Lost Durkin Gold Mine!”
Hannington’s face lit up as he caught an inward glimpse of himself as the owner.
“Lost Durkin! Deuced romantic name, you know! Isn’t it, Phil?”