“I panned in Shirttail Bar last two months,” blurted 181 a hoarse and embarrassed individual, without rising, “and down thar they had a reg’lation that airy nugget that weighs over a half ounce that is found before the dirt is thrown in the cradle belongs to the man that finds it, and not to the company. Of course this here is a pan, and not a cradle.”
“That’s more like business. Anybody know if anywhar they do it the other way around?”
Apparently nobody did.
“Anybody got any idees as to why we shouldn’t follow Shirttail in this matter? Dog-gone you! Set down! You ain’t got nothin’ to say here.”
The man appealed to the crowd.
“Ain’t I got a right to be heard in my own case?” he demanded.
“This ain’t your case,” persisted John Semple stoutly; “it’s decidin’ what the policy of this camp is goin’ to be regardin’ nuggets. Your dog-gone case is mighty unimportant and you’re a prejudiced party. And if you don’t set down, I’ll come down there and argue with you! If none of you other fellows has anything to say, we’ll vote on it.”
We then and there decided, almost unanimously, to follow Shirttail.
“Now,” resumed Semple, after this matter had been disposed of, “there’s a bunch of these yere keskydees around throwin’ assorted duckfits all this morning; and as near as I can make out they say somebody’s jumped their claim or their camp, or something. Jim, supposin’ you and your tin star saunter down and eject these jumpers.”
182A very tall, quiet, slow moving man arose, aimed his tobacco juice at a small tree, drawled out the words, “All right, Jedge,” and departed, trailed by a half dozen jabbering keskydees, to whom he paid not the slightest attention.