want in and outer the ground—­call it two millions more.  Now my time’s too vally’ble; my professhun’s too high-toned to work mines.  I make ’em.  Hand me over a check for ten millions and call it square, and work it for yourself.’  So Capital hands over the money and waltzes down to run the mine, and you original locators walks round with yer hands in yer pockets a-top of your six million profit, and you let’s Capital take the work and the responsibility.”

Preposterous as this seemed from the lips of Whiskey Dick, Christie had a haunting suspicion that it was not greatly unlike the theories expounded by the clever young banker who had been her escort.  She did not interrupt his flow of reminiscent criticism; when he paused for breath, she said, quietly: 

“I met Mr. George Kearney the other day in the country.”

Whiskey Dick stopped awkwardly, glanced hurriedly at Christie, and coughed behind his handkerchief.

“Mr. Kearney—­eh—­er—­certengly—­yes—­er—­met him, you say.  Was he—­er—­er—­well?”

“In health, yes; but otherwise he has lost everything,” said Christie, fixing her eyes on the embarrassed Dick.

“Yes—­er—­in course—­in course—­” continued Dick, nervously glancing round the apartment as if endeavoring to find an opening to some less abrupt statement of the fact.

“And actually reduced to take some menial employment,” added Christie, still regarding Dick with her clear glance.

“That’s it—­that’s just it,” said Dick, beaming as he suddenly found his delicate and confidential opportunity.  “That’s it, Miss Christie; that’s just what I was sayin’ to the boys.  ‘Ez it the square thing,’ sez I, ’jest because George hez happened to hypothecate every dollar he has, or expects to hev, to put into them works, only to please Mr. Carr, and just because he don’t want to distress that intelligent gentleman by letting him see he’s dead broke—­for him to go and demean himself and Devil’s Ford by rushing away and hiring out as a Mexican vaquero on Mexican wages?  Look,’ sez I, ’at the disgrace he brings upon a high-toned, fash’nable girl, at whose side he’s walked and danced, and passed rings, and sentiments, and bokays in the changes o’ the cotillion and the mizzourka.  And wot,’ sez I, ’if some day, prancing along in a fash’nable cavalcade, she all of a suddents comes across him drivin’ a Mexican steer?’ That’s what I said to the boys.  And so you met him, Miss Christie, as usual,” continued Dick, endeavoring under the appearance of a large social experience to conceal an eager anxiety to know the details—­“so you met him; and, in course, you didn’t let on yer knew him, so to speak, nat’rally, or p’raps you kinder like asked him to fix your saddle-girth, and give him a five-dollar piece—­eh?”

Christie, who had risen and gone to the window, suddenly turned a very pale face and shining eyes on Dick.

“Mr. Hall,” she said, with a faint attempt at a smile, “we are old friends, and I feel I can ask you a favor.  You once before acted as our escort—­it was for a short but a happy time—­will you accept a larger trust?  My father is busy in Sacramento for the mine:  will you, without saying anything to anybody, take Jessie and me back at once to Devil’s Ford?”