“Johnny!” the girl cried out in alarm. “What are you saying? Are you telling me that in our camp some one is unfair, dishonest? How could they be? We are searching for mineral in a wild, open country that belongs to no one save the Provincial Government. How could we be dishonest?”
“And yet,” Johnny said as he sat down upon the sled, “a very mean trick, yes, a dishonest, dishonorable one has been played by—. Not by your father,” he hastened to explain, “but by at least one of the young men with whom he is associated.
“Sit down and I will tell you.”
The girl sank to a place beside him.
“Listen.” His tone grew impressive. “You have seen those enlarged photographs?”
“You mean the ones taken from the air, showing the surface of rocks, the sides of ledges, the ones our men work by? The ones they study and find signs that save them months of travel?”
“Yes.”
“I have seen them many times.”
“Then you know,” the boy went on, “that they are invaluable as an aid in the search for mineral, that an expert mineralogist like your father can sit down before those photographs and can, after studying them carefully, tell where mineral is likely to be found.
“Of course,” his voice dropped a little, “of course, a skilled observer may fly over the territory and tell something of the rock formation from mere eye observations. But photographs are much better.