SECTION 10.
So Hal hurried off, and climbed the street which led to the superintendent's house, a concrete bungalow set upon a little elevation overlooking the camp. He rang the bell, and the door opened, and in the entrance stood his brother.
Edward Warner was eight years older than Hal; the perfect type of the young American business man. His figure was erect and athletic, his features were regular and strong, his voice, his manner, everything about him spoke of quiet decision, of energy precisely directed. As a rule, he was a model of what the tailor's art could do, but just now there was something abnormal about his attire as well as his manner.
Hal's anxiety had been increasing all the way up the street. “What's the matter with Dad?” he cried.
“Dad's all right,” was the answer—“that is, for the moment.”
“Then what—?”
“Peter Harrigan's on his way back from the East. He's due in Western City to-morrow. You can see that something will be the matter with Dad unless you quit this business at once.”
Hal had a sudden reaction from his fear. “So that's all!” he exclaimed.
His brother was gazing at the young miner, dressed in sooty blue overalls, his face streaked with black, his wavy hair all mussed. “You wired me you were going to leave here, Hal!”
“So I was; but things happened that I couldn't foresee. There's a strike.”