The man from Indian River went back alone.  The Boy would limp after the Colonel down to the sluice, and sit on a dump heap with Nig.  Few people not there strictly on business were tolerated on No. 0, but Nig and his master had been on good terms with Seymour from the first.  Now they struck up acquaintance with several of the night-gang, especially with the men who worked on either side of the Colonel.  An Irish gentleman, who did the shovelling just below, said he had graduated from Dublin University.  He certainly had been educated somewhere, and if the discussion were theologic, would take out of his linen-coat pocket a little testament in the Vulgate to verify a bit of Gospel.  He could even pelt the man next but one in his native tongue, calling the Silesian “Uebermensch.”  There existed some doubt whether this were the gentleman’s real name, but none at all as to his talking philosophy with greater fervour than he bestowed on the puddling box.

The others were men more accustomed to work with their hands, but, in spite of the conscious superiority of your experienced miner, a very good feeling prevailed in the gang—­a general friendliness that presently centred about the Colonel, for even in his present mood he was far from disagreeable, except now and then, to the man he cared the most for.

Seymour admitted that he had placed the Southerner where he thought he’d feel most at home.  “Anyhow, the company is less mixed,” he said, “than it was all winter up at twenty-three, where they had a Presbyterian missionary down the shaft, a Salvation Army captain turnin’ the windlass, a nigger thief dumpin’ the becket, and a dignitary of the Church of England doin’ the cookin’, with the help of a Chinese chore-boy.  They’re all there now (except one) washin’ out gold for the couple of San Francisco card-sharpers that own the claim.”

“Vich von is gone?” asked the Silesian, who heard the end of the conversation.

“Oh, the Chinese chore-boy is the one who’s bettered himself,” said the Superintendent—­“makin’ more than all the others put together ever made in their lives; runnin’ a laundry up at Dawson.”

The Boy, since this trouble with his foot, had fallen into the way of turning night into day.  The Colonel liked to have him down there at the sluice, and when he thought about it, the Boy marvelled at the hours he spent looking on while others worked.

At first he said he came down only to make Scowl Austin mad.  And it did make him mad at first, but the odd thing was he got over it, and used to stop and say something now and then.  This attention on the part of the owner was distinctly perilous to the Boy’s good standing with the gang.  Not because Austin was the owner; there was the millionaire Swede, Ole Olsen—­any man might talk to him.  He was on the square, treated his workmen mighty fair, and when the other owners tried to reduce wages, and did, Ole wouldn’t join them—­went right along paying the highest rate on the creek.