Edward made a gesture of despair. “God knows, I don't know what to do for you!”
They started back to the hotel, and on the way Edward cast about in his mind for a harmless subject of conversation. He mentioned that he had foreseen the shutting up of the stores, and had purchased an outfit for his brother. There was no need to thank him, he added grimly; he had no intention of travelling to Western City in company with a hobo.
So the young miner had a bath, the first real one in a long time. (Never again would it be possible for ladies to say in Hal Warner's presence that the poor might at least keep clean!) He had a shave; he trimmed his finger-nails, and brushed his hair, and dressed himself as a gentleman. In spite of himself he found his cheerfulness partly restored. A strange and wonderful sensation—to be dressed once more as a gentleman. He thought of the saying of the old negro, who liked to stub his toe, because it felt so good when it stopped hurting!
They went out to find a restaurant, and on the way one last misadventure befell Edward. Hal saw an old miner walking past, and stopped with a cry: “Mike!” He forgot all at once that he was a gentleman; the old miner forgot it also. He stared for one bewildered moment, then he rushed at Hal and seized him in the hug of a mountain grizzly.
“My buddy! My buddy!” he cried, and gave Hal a prodigious thump on the back. “By Judas!” And he gave him a thump with the other hand. “Hey! you old son-of-a-gun!” And he gave him a hairy kiss!
But in the very midst of these raptures it dawned over him that there was something wrong about his buddy. He drew back, staring. “You got good clothes! You got rich, hey?”
Evidently the old fellow had heard no rumour concerning Hal's secret. “I've been doing pretty well,” Hal said.
“What you work at, hey?”
“I been working at a strike in North Valley.”
“What's that? You make money working at strike?”