“But, of course, we’ll wait until we get it.”

“You haven’t any doubts about getting the gold, have you?”

“Not a doubt.  Have you?”

“I’m an optimist,” Harry asserted.

“What’s your idea of an optimist, anyway?” laughed Tom.

“An optimist is a fellow who believes that banknotes grow on potato vines,” laughed Harry.

“Oh, we’ll get our gold all right,” Reade predicted.

“We will, and a lot more.  Tom, you and I still have mineral rights that we can file, with Ferrers as trustee.”

“We’ll go prospecting for two more bully claims just as soon as we begin to see pay-rock coming out of this vein,” Tom planned.  “Alf, you lazy cigarette fiend, hurry up and bring me some more of the canned meat.”

“Bring me another cup of coffee on the jump,” called Harry.  “While you’re about it make it two cups of coffee.”

As soon as he had brought the required things Alf tried slyly to slip away by himself, for he had already had his own supper.

“Here, you son of the shiftless one, get back here and drag the grub to this table,” yelled one of the men at the miners’ table.

After that Alf remained on duty until all hands had been fed.  Then he tried to slip away again, only to be roped by a lariat in the hands of the new cook.

“Let me catch you trying to sneak away from work again, and I’ll cowhide you with this rope,” growled the cook.  “Why are you trying to sneak away before your work is finished?”

“I’m almost dead for a smoke,” said Alf.

“Smoke, is it?  You stay here and wash the dishes.  Don’t try to get away again until I tell you you can go.  If you do—–­but you won’t,” finished the cook grimly.

Alf worked away industriously.  At last this outdoor kitchen work was finished.

“Now I can go, can’t I?” spoke up Alf, hopefully.  “Say, I’m perishing for want of a smoke.”

“Stay and have a man’s smoke with me,” said the cook.  “Here, hold this between your teeth.”

Alf drew back, half-shuddering from the blackened clay pipe, filled with strong tobacco, which the cook passed him.

“You’re always itching to be a man,” mocked the cook.  “And now’s your chance.  A pipe is a man’s smoke.  Them cigs are fit only for ’sheeters.”

“I don’t wanter smoke it,” pleaded Alf, drawing back from the proffered pipe.

“You take matches, light that pipe and smoke it,” insisted the cook, a man named Leon, in a tone that compelled obedience.

Poor Alf smoked wretchedly away.  Finally, when he thought Leon wasn’t looking, he tried to hide the pipe.

“Here, you keep that a-going!” ordered the cook wrathfully, wheeling upon the miserable youngster.

So Alf puffed up, feebly, and, when the pipe went out, he lighted the tobacco again.

“Here!” he protested, three minutes later, handing back the pipe.