The Inger was silent, and his father went on.
I was cut out to be rich. When I was a kid in the tannery, I was dead sure. When I hit the trail for the mines I thought the time was right ahead. That was fifty years ago....”
“Quit, Dad,” said the Inger, uncomfortably. “I’ve got it—what’s the difference? The Flag-pole is good for all either of us will ever want.”
“I ain’t forgot, though,” said the older man, quickly, “that you banked on the Flag-pole agin’ my advice. If you’d done as I said, you’d been grubbin’ yet, same as me.”
“It’s all luck,” said the Inger. “What can anybody tell? We’re gettin’ the stuff—and there’s a long sight more’n we need. Ain’t that enough? What you want to wear yourself out for?”
His father leaned against the end of the warm rock, and lighted his pipe.
“Did I say I wanted to?” he asked. “I done it so long I can’t help myself. I’ll be schemin’ out deals, and bein’ let in on the ground floor, and findin’ a sure thing till I croak. And gettin’ took in, regular.”
He regarded his son curiously.
“What you goin’ to do with your pile?” he inquired.
The Inger sat clasping his knees, looking up at the height of Whiteface, thick black in the thin darkness. His face was relaxed and there was a boyishness and a sweetness in his grave mouth.