Stephen slowly filled his tin cup with coffee, and paused, after the western fashion, to blow into it a spoonful of condensed milk, before he answered.
“I am not sure,” he said, “but I think that there is a vacancy on one of the hoists. I think they fired a man there recently.”
“That’s good for us,” exclaimed one of the men. “Wish they’d fire some more!” Stephen did not continue the discussion.
After a quiet smoke beside the embers of the fire, Stephen rose, and thanking his hosts warmly, prepared to leave. As he was mounting he happened to feel a flask that was in his pocket. He remembered vaguely having filled it the night before. Reaching down from the saddle he held out the flask.
“Have a drink, gentlemen?” he asked.
One of the men took the flask in his hands, almost reverently.
“I don’t know that I won’t,” he said. He took a long pull, then handed the flask to his partner.
“Regards!” drawled the latter.
The words brought to Loring a bitter train of memories.
“Keep the damned stuff if you want it. I am through with it,” he said. Then, with a quick good night, he rode off.