The young fellow saw the change in Uncle Jim’s face and quickly extended his hand, with an apologetic backward shake of his long hair.  “Hang it all, old man,” he said, with a laugh of mingled contrition and amusement, “you mustn’t mind what I said just now.  I’ve been so worried thinking of things about myself, and, maybe, a little about you, that I quite forgot I hadn’t a call to preach to anybody—­least of all to you.  So we part friends, Uncle Jim, and you too, Uncle Billy, and you’ll forget what I said.  In fact, I don’t know why I spoke at all—­only I was passing your claim just now, and wondering how much longer your old sluice-boxes would hold out, and where in thunder you’d get others when they caved in!  I reckon that sent me off.  That’s all, old chap!”

Uncle Billy’s face broke into a beaming smile of relief, and it was his hand that first grasped his guest’s; Uncle Jim quickly followed with as honest a pressure, but with eyes that did not seem to be looking at Bullen, though all trace of resentment had died out of them.  He walked to the door with him, again shook hands, but remained looking out in the darkness some time after Dick Bullen’s tangled hair and broad shoulders had disappeared.

Meantime, Uncle Billy had resumed his seat and was chuckling and reminiscent as he cleaned out his pipe.

“Kinder reminds me of Jo Sharp, when he was cleaned out at poker by his own partners in his own cabin, comin’ up here and bedevilin’ us about it!  What was it you lint him?”

But Uncle Jim did not reply; and Uncle Billy, taking up the cards, began to shuffle them, smiling vaguely, yet at the same time somewhat painfully.  “Arter all, Dick was mighty cut up about what he said, and I felt kinder sorry for him.  And, you know, I rather cotton to a man that speaks his mind.  Sorter clears him out, you know, of all the slumgullion that’s in him.  It’s just like washin’ out a pan o’ prospecting:  you pour in the water, and keep slushing it round and round, and out comes first the mud and dirt, and then the gravel, and then the black sand, and then—­it’s all out, and there’s a speck o’ gold glistenin’ at the bottom!”

“Then you think there was suthin’ in what he said?” said Uncle Jim, facing about slowly.

An odd tone in his voice made Uncle Billy look up.  “No,” he said quickly, shying with the instinct of an easy pleasure-loving nature from a possible grave situation.  “No, I don’t think he ever got the color!  But wot are ye moonin’ about for?  Ain’t ye goin’ to play?  It’s mor’ ’n half past nine now.”

Thus adjured, Uncle Jim moved up to the table and sat down, while Uncle Billy dealt the cards, turning up the Jack or right bower—­but without that exclamation of delight which always accompanied his good fortune, nor did Uncle Jim respond with the usual corresponding simulation of deep disgust.  Such a circumstance had not occurred before in the history of their partnership.  They both played in silence—­a silence only interrupted by a larger splash of raindrops down the chimney.