“I’ll bet that bolt struck a house or barn not far away,” nodded the embryo medical student.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” replied Jack, as he came back to the center of the room and viewed the face of the dead man meditatively, as if he was wondering what sort of a character he had been in life.
The corpse was that of an apparently well-nourished man of about fifty years of age; the bearded features were coarse and rugged, as if he had roughed it upon the plains or in the mountains of the West.
“Looks as if he might have been a miner, eh, Charlie?” suggested Jack.
“Yes, or a prospector, or something of that sort.”
“Or maybe a ranchman.”
“Sure; or a bad man from Piute Flat, or some other tough joint in the wild and woolly.”
“Hardly that,” objected his chum. “It is not a bad face, by any means. I don’t think I should be afraid to trust a fellow with his physiognomy.”
“You have more confidence in his face than I have, then. I prefer the civilized man every day in the year.”
“For looks, yes; but as for character—well, there are a good many undesirable individuals walking the streets of our big cities in fine linen and broadcloth to whom, I dare say, this poor fellow could give cards and spades in a lesson in morality. You can’t always judge a book by its cover, old chap.”