“That is all very pleasant,” reflected Stephen, “if the company, having seen how active the men can be, does not increase the number of buckets required.”
Shortly before four o’clock they were relieved by the engineer for the next shift, who undertook the task of lowering the waiting men. Then Colson and Loring, picking up their coats, walked slowly down the hill into the camp. At the smelter Loring parted with Colson and walked over to his own quarters. Since his dismissal from the hospital, he had been sharing a tent with one of the shift bosses—a man about whom Stephen knew little except the fact that he was named Lynn, and that he never washed. The company rented tents with board floors, for two dollars a month, so that when the quarters were shared, household expenses were not large.
As Loring threw back the wire-screened door of the tent, Lynn, from within, greeted him with mild interest.
“I hear they are goin’ to try you on Number Three. Now over where I used to work in Black Eagle, they wouldn’t let a green man even smell the hoist. It ain’t safe, nor legal. But I suppose the Boss had to give you some job. All wrong, though.”
Loring kept discreet silence in answer to this, and after fetching a bucket of water, proceeded to wash with many splashes. This annoyed Lynn, who grunted: “How can a man do any work with you wallowin’ round like a herd of steers?” Then he returned to his previous occupation of poring over location papers for some claims of his “up yonder.” These claims were the joke of the camp, on account of their remoteness from any known ore vein, yet Lynn, unaffected by the waves of exultation or depression which from time to time swept through the camp, year by year persisted in doggedly doing his assessment work.
In Arizona almost every man, no matter what his occupation or station, has “some claims up in the hills.” These claims furnish the romance of his life, for always beneath the grimmest present lies the golden “perhaps” of a rich strike.
Stephen sat on the edge of his cot, rolling a cigarette and watching Lynn’s profile.
“There are some people,” he meditated, “who would not look cheerful if they were paid so much a smile.” When Lynn had finished his papers, he rose with solemn deliberative slowness, took down a black felt hat from a wooden peg on the tent pole, transferred his toothpick from the left side of his mouth to the right, and slouched towards the door.
“Come on over to grub!” he called back. Loring joined him, and together they walked over to the company mess.