They were sitting outside the mine shack. Henry and Mort had been lodged in a Mexican prison. They were merely waiting until Mr. Gray would be ready to leave the mines. Bill and Jack had attended to the necessary legal formalities. But Mr. Gray learned that the mine superintendent had discovered a regular hoard of old Aztec relics in the fastness of the hills and Mr. Gray proposed to go with him to inspect them the next day. He might decide to remain the rest of the late summer and collect and arrange the relics.
“Why, don’t she own a dollar of the mine?” Nicky demanded. “She hid the paper. Her father paid for half the mine.”
“But he paid Mort, and Mort can’t return the money, and he had no right to sell the mine. It was really Jack’s——”
“Well,” said Jack, ambling up, “did I hear my name mentioned?”
“You certainly did,” declared Cliff. “Tom says he can’t touch the mine at all because it’s all yours and what his father paid——”
“Please—please!” gasped Mort’s former beach combing partner of Porto Bello. “Don’t make me weep. Don’t make me laugh.”
“Just the same,” said Tom, “it wouldn’t be right.”
“Well,” said Jack, “let’s look at it this way. Your father paid in good earnest.”
Tom nodded, and Margery, beside him, smiled and gave vigorous assent.
“And because Mort was greedy and all, his greed and lust has turned against him and has brought me back to being a man through you folks. But that don’t pay for the mine, of course. And it’s a shame, too.” He looked over toward the mountains. The sun, declining, was taking on the rich, golden hue, and the sky was dyed, above a blood-red line just over the hills, with a vast, swimming, pulsating light, a vivid golden sea of beauty.