“Not we!” I exclaimed. “My father wouldn’t let us if we wanted to. We are doing this work for Tom Connor, whom my father is anxious to serve, he having done us, among others, a very good turn.”
“I see,” said the hermit. “And this man, Yetmore, or, rather, his henchman, Long John, will be coming as soon as the snow is off to hunt for the vein in competition with our friend, Connor.”
“That is what we expect.”
“Well, then, I can help you a little. We will, at least, secure for Connor a start over the enemy.”
“How?” I asked.
“You remember, of course,” said the hermit, “that sulphurous stuff that was cooking on the flat stone outside my door the day you came down to my house through the clouds? That was galena ore.”
“Why, of course!” I exclaimed, slapping my leg. “What pudding-heads we must have been, Joe, not to have thought of it before. I had forgotten all about it. Have you found the vein, then?”
“No, I have not; nor have I ever taken the trouble to look for it, having found a place where I can get a sufficient supply for my purposes to last for years.”
“And what do you use it for?” I asked.
“To make bullets from. I get the powdered ore, roast out the sulphur on that flat stone, and then melt down the residue.”