But Roderick shook his head reassuringly. He remembered that his father’s find was placer gold—water-worn nuggets taken from a sandbar in some old channel, as the sample in Jim Rankin’s own possession showed. The ores he was now holding were of quite a different class—they had been broken from the living rock.
After the specimens had been returned to the sample sacks and the excitement had quieted a little, Major Hampton threw his head back in his own princely way, as he sat in his easy chair before the fire and observed: “Money may be a blessing or it may be a curse. Personally I shall regret the discovery if a single dollar of this wealth, which it is in my power to bring to the light of day, should ever bring sorrow to humanity. It is my opinion that the richest man in the world should not possess more than a quarter of a million dollars at most, and even that amount is liable to make a very poor citizen out of an otherwise good man. Unnecessary wealth merely stimulates to abnormal or wicked extravagance. It is also self-evident that a more equal distribution of wealth would obtain if millionaires were unknown, and greater happiness would naturally follow.”
“Yes, but the world requires ‘spenders’ as well as getters,’”laughed Tom Sun. “Otherwise we would all be dying of sheer weariness of each other.”
“Surely, there are arguments on both sides,” assented the Major. “It is a difficult problem. I was merely contending that a community of comparatively poor people who earn their bread by the sweat of their brow—tilling the soil and possessed of high ideals of good citizenship—such people beyond question afford the greatest example of contentment, morality and happiness. Great wealth is the cause of some of our worst types of degeneracy. However,” he concluded, knocking the ashes from his pipe, “it is not my purpose this evening to sermonize. Nor do I intend at present to say anything more about the rich gold discovery I have made except to reiterate my assurance that at the proper time all you gentlemen will be called on to share in the enterprise and in its profits. Now I believe some of you”—and he looked at Jim Rankin, Tom Sun and Boney Earnest as he spoke—“have another engagement tonight. It was only at my special request, Mr. Warfield, that they remained to meet you and Mr. Jones.”
“And we’re much obliged to you, Major,” said Boney Earnest, arising and glancing at his watch. “Hope old John Warfield’s boy and I will get still better acquainted. But I’ve got to be going now. You see my wife insisted that I bring the folks back early so that she might have a visit with Mr. Rankin and Mr. Sun.”
Tom Sun shook hands cordially.
“Glad to have met you, Mr. Warfield,” he said, “for your father’s sake as well as your own. I trust we’ll meet often. Good-night, Mr. Jones.”
Rankin whispered something to Roderick, but Roderick did not catch the words, and when he attempted to inquire the old fellow merely nodded his head and said aloud: “You bet your life; I’m assoomin’ this is jist ‘tween me and you.” Roderick smiled at this oddity, as the man of mystery followed his friends from the room.
When the door closed and Roderick and Grant were alone with the Major, pipes were again lighted, and a spell of silence fell upon the group—the enjoyable silence of quiet companionship. The Major showed no disposition to re-open the subject of the rich gold discovery, nor did Roderick feel inclined to press for further information. As he mused, however, he became more firmly convinced than before that his secret was still his own—that Buell Hampton, in this rugged mountain region with its many undiscovered storehouses of wealth, had tumbled on a different gold-bearing spot to that located by Uncle Allen Miller and his father. Some day, perhaps, he would show the Major the letter and the map. But to do this now might seem like begging the favor of further confidences, so until these were volunteered Roderick must pursue his own lonesome trail. The mere sight of the gold, however, had quickened his pulse beats. To resume the humdrum life at the ranch seemed intolerable. He longed to be out on the hills with his favorite pony Badger, searching every nook and corner for the hidden treasure.
Presently Buell Hampton arose and laid his pipe aside, and going to a curtained corner of the room returned with his violin. And long into the night, with only a fitful light from the burning logs in the open fireplace, the Major played for his young friends. It seemed his repertoire was without beginning and without end. As he played his moods underwent many changes. Now he was gay and happy, at another moment sad and wistful. He passed from sweet low measures into wild, thrilling abandonment. Now he was drawing divine harmony from the strings by dainty caresses, again he was almost brutally compelling them to render forth the fierce passion of music that was surging in his own soul. The performance held the listeners spellbound—left them for the moment speechless when at last the player dropped into a chair. The instrument was laid across his knees; he was still fondling it with gentle touches and taps from his long slender fingers.