For days he ate little, hoarding every cent to keep him from starvation till he should find work. At Granite Camp, on the side of the mountain, all was bustle and confusion. The varied machinery, the eager miners, the enthusiasm, the warm-hearted familiarity,—all excited Asa. He was ready for any kind of work, and soon found it. Mining was hard,—no work is easy,—but he would earn and save, and later prospect for himself, get hold of claims, and “strike it rich.”
Weeks and months passed. No letter came from Martha, for she did not know where Asa had gone. She wept when she found that she was left alone—wept with that half-deadened sense of loss which persons feel who have had the cheer of life taken out of them by the blows of circumstance.
Asa had been kind to her and the children, but in these days she had little time to think of love or loss, for work was never-ending, and rent and fuel were certainties. So she toiled on, and guessed that he had gone to seek his fortune in the mines, and clothed the children as well as she could, and sewed and washed and prayed and waited.
Years came and went. Asa Scranton in the mines and Martha Scranton at home were growing older. The miners liked Asa, though he joined little in their merry-making, and got the name of being miserly. They could not know that he was saving his money to make Martha rich. Sometimes, when he had earned money enough to work a claim, and had gotten other parties interested, he dug for treasure, but always failed. Then the hole was left in the mountain, and Asa went back to his daily digging in the mines.
His hair grew grayer and his form bent. He would write Martha and Alice and John when he had made his fortune, but not now. He lived alone in his little shanty, often weary, always lonely, “forever unlucky,” as he said, but still hoping that better days would come. Every spare moment he searched the mountains, till it was common talk that Asa Scranton knew every vein of silver and lead in the surrounding country. He would make one last effort. He had been to one spot stealthily, from time to time, where, from the surface ore, he felt sure of success.
But how could he interest capital? He had failed in other projects, and the world did not believe in him. In vain he besought men to join him. He hoarded his money, grew thin from lack of food, dressed in ragged clothes, and still dreamed of future success.
Finally a little money was put into the venture, but no veins worth working were found. Asa was sure they would win if they probed further into the mountain. He labored with men in and out of camp to put in more money. The miners said he was crazy. He certainly was cold and hungry, and well nigh frenzied.
At last he found a German, Hans Bochert, who, like himself, had struggled for years, had lost and won,—with many losings to one winning,—but who, out of pity for the old miner, gave nearly his last dollar to push on the work.
Asa seemed in a half delirium. He would not leave the place day or night. Cold or rain did not deter him, though he seemed ill and broken. Finally the good news came that a big body of ore was struck. Asa Scranton’s face gleamed as though the full sunlight poured upon it. “I’m going to my shanty to write to Martha,” he said, and hurried away. He did not come back in the morning, and Hans Bochert and the other men hastened over to know the reason.
Asa sat in his chair with the same halo about his face—dead from an excess of joy. On a paper, on the little table, was the letter he had begun to write to Martha Scranton at Fairport: “Darling Wife: I have struck it rich, and you and the children”—