Sandy MacDonald, who had been stirring up a batch of sourdough flapjacks, turned about to stare. “Found gold? Where?”
“Those fellows who have been using our pictures. They’ve found gold in an old creek bed.”
“When?”
“Two, three hours ago.”
“Then the Moccasin Telegraph works?”
“Sure it works. And now—”
“Seems a shame to claim a share.”
“It does. But it’s only just. We must not let foolish sentiment stop us. We must think of our rights.”
“Scott,” said Sandy thoughtfully, “did you ever receive an answer to that letter you wrote to your friend in Winnipeg asking about those films?”
“Never did.”