Before Lance could reply, Flip had already begun.  “That’s just it!  D’ye reckon, being a sportin’ man and a A 1 feller, he’s goin’ to waltz down inter that hotel, rigged out ez he is?  D’ye reckon he’s goin’ to let his partners get the laugh onter him?  D’ye reckon he’s goin’ to show his head outer this yer ranch till he can do it square?  Not much!  Go ’long.  Dad, you’re talking silly!”

The old man weakened.  He feebly trailed his axe between his legs to a stump and sat down, wiping his forehead with his sleeve, and imparting to it the appearance of a slate with a difficult sum partly rubbed out.  He looked despairingly at Lance.  “In course,” he said, with a deep sigh, “you naturally ain’t got any money.  In course you left your pocketbook, containing fifty dollars, under a stone, and can’t find it.  In course,” he continued, as he observed Lance put his hand to his pocket, “you’ve only got a blank check on Wells, Fargo & Co. for a hundred dollars, and you’d like me to give you the difference?”

Amused as Lance evidently was at this, his absolute admiration for Flip absorbed everything else.  With his eyes fixed upon the girl, he briefly assured the old man that he would pay for everything he wanted.  He did this with a manner quite different from the careless, easy attitude he had assumed toward Flip; at least the quickwitted girl noticed it, and wondered if he was angry.  It was quite true that ever since his eye had fallen upon another of his own sex, its glance had been less frank and careless.  Certain traits of possible impatience, which might develop into man-slaying, were coming to the fore.  Yet a word or a gesture of Flip’s was sufficient to change that manner, and when, with the fretful assistance of her father, she had prepared a somewhat sketchy and primitive repast, he questioned the old man about diamond-making.  The eye of Dad kindled.

“I want ter know how ye knew I was making diamonds,” he asked, with a certain bashful pettishness not unlike his daughter’s.

“Heard it in ’Frisco,” replied Lance, with glib mendacity, glancing at the girl.

“I reckon they’re gettin’ sort of skeert down there—­them jewelers,” chuckled Dad, “yet it’s in nater that their figgers will have to come down.  It’s only a question of the price of charcoal.  I suppose they didn’t tell you how I made the discovery?”

Lance would have stopped the old man’s narrative by saying that he knew the story, but he wished to see how far Flip lent herself to her father’s delusion.

“Ye see, one night about two years ago I had a pit o’ charcoal burning out there, and tho’ it had been a-smouldering and a-smoking and a-blazing for nigh unto a month, somehow it didn’t charcoal worth a cent.  And yet, dog my skin, but the heat o’ that er pit was suthin hidyus and frightful; ye couldn’t stand within a hundred yards of it, and they could feel it on the stage road three miles over yon, t’other side the mountain.  There was nights when me and Flip had to take our blankets up the ravine and camp out all night, and the back of this yer hut shriveled up like that bacon.  It was about as nigh on to hell as any sample ye kin get here.  Now, mebbe you think I built that air fire?  Mebbe you’ll allow the heat was just the nat’ral burning of that pit?”