But the young miner did not answer. “You say he described the girl?”
“He was kind enough to say she was a red-headed beauty, and with no one to protect her but a drunken father. I could understand that must have made it pretty hard for her, in one of these coal-camps.” There was a pause. “But see here,” said the reporter, “you'll only do the girl harm by making a row. Nobody believes that women in coal-camps have any virtue. God knows, I don't see how they do have, considering the sort of men who run the camps, and the power they have.”
“Mr. Keating,” said Hal, “did you believe what Cartwright told you?”
Keating had started to light a cigar. He stopped in the middle, and his eyes met Hal's. “My dear boy,” said he, “I didn't consider it my business to have an opinion.”
“But what did you say to Cartwright?”
“Ah! That's another matter. I said that I'd been a newspaper man for a good many years, and I knew his game.”
“Thank you for that,” said Hal. “You may be interested to know there isn't any truth in the story.”
“Glad to hear it,” said the other. “I believe you.”
“Also you may be interested to know that I shan't drop the matter until I've made Cartwright take it back.”
“Well, you're an enterprising cuss!” laughed the reporter. “Haven't you got enough on your hands, with all the men you're going to get out of the mine?”