Slapjack remained in the cab, gun in lap, while Dextry climbed back to Glenister.  He found the young man in good spirits, despite the discomfort of his exposed position, and striving to light his pipe behind the shelter of his coat.

“Is the dynamite aboard?” the old man questioned.

“Sure.  Enough to ballast a battle-ship.”

As the train crept out of the camp and across the river bridge, its only light or glimmer the sparks that were snatched and harried by the blast, the partners seated themselves on the powder cases and conversed guardedly, while about them sounded the low murmur of the men who risked their all upon this cry to duty, who staked their lives and futures upon this hazard of the hills, because they thought it right.

“We’ve made a good fight, whether we win or lose to-night,” said Dextry.

Roy replied, “My fight is made and won.”

“What does that mean?”

“My hardest battle had nothing to do with the Midas or the mines of Anvil.  I fought and conquered myself.”

“Awful wet night for philosophy,” the first remarked.  “It’s apt to sour on you like milk in a thunder-storm.  S’pose you put overalls an’ gum boots on some of them Boston ideas an’ lead ’em out where I can look ’em over an’ find out what they’re up to.”

“I mean that I was a savage till I met Helen Chester and she made a man of me.  It took sixty days, but I think she did a good job.  I love the wild things just as much as ever, but I’ve learned that there are duties a fellow owes to himself, and to other people, if he’ll only stop and think them out.  I’ve found out, too, that the right thing is usually the hardest to do.  Oh, I’ve improved a lot.”

“Gee! but you’re popular with yourself.  I don’t see as it helps your looks any.  You’re as homely as ever—­an’ what good does it do you after all?  She’ll marry that big guy.”

“I know.  That’s what rankles, for he’s no more worthy of her than I am.  She’ll do what’s right, however, you may depend upon that, and perhaps she’ll change him the way she did me.  Why, she worked a miracle in my attitude towards life—­my manner—­”

“Oh, your manners are good enough as they lay,” interrupted the other.  “You never did eat with your knife.”

“I don’t believe in hara-kiri,” Glenister laughed.

“No, when it comes to intimacies with decorum, you’re right on the job along with any of them Easterners.  I watched you close at them ’Frisco hotels last winter, and, say—­you know as much as a horse.  Why, you was wise to them tablewares and pickle-forks equal to a head-waiter, and it give me confidence just to be with you.  I remember putting milk and sugar in my consomme the first time.  It was pale and in a cup and looked like tea—­but not you.  No, sir!  You savvied plenty and squeezed a lemon into yours—­to clean your fingers, I reckon.”

Roy slapped his partner’s wet back, for he was buoyant and elated.  The sense of nearing danger pulsed through him like wine.  “That wasn’t just what I meant, but it goes.  Say, if we win back our mine, we’ll hit for New York next—­eh?”