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“Ridicule!” exclaimed Florence, with a glance of admiration. “You can’t ridicule a tall pine.”

“I told you she’d have you a part of the landscape,” exulted Fred. “She’ll have you a mountain peak next.”

Kelley, who felt himself at a disadvantage, remained silent, but not in a sulky mood. The girl was too entertaining for that. It amused him to get the point of view of a city-bred woman to whom everything was either strange or related to some play or story she had known. The cabins, the mills, the occasional miners they met, all absorbed her attention, and when they reached the little shaft-house and were met by old Hank Stoddard, Kelley’s partner, her satisfaction was complete, for Hank had all the earmarks of the old prospector–tangled beard, jack-boots, pipe, flannel shirt, and all. He was from the South also, and spoke with a drawl.

“Oh, but he is a joy!” Florence said, privately, to Kelley. “I didn’t know such Bret Harte types existed any more. How did you find him?”

“I used to know him down on the Perco. He had a mine down there that came just within a hair-line of paying, and when I ran across him up here he had a notion the mine would do to lease. I hadn’t much, only a horse and saddle and a couple of hundred dollars, but we formed a partnership.”

“That was before my brother came into the firm.”

Kelley recovered himself. “Yes; you see, he came in a little later–when we needed a little ready cash.”

She seemed satisfied, but as they went into the mine she listened closely to all that Kelley and Stoddard said. Stoddard’s remarks were safe, for he never so much as mentioned Kelley’s name. It was all “I” with old Hank–“I did this” and “I did that”–till Florence said to Kelley:

“You junior partners in this mine don’t seem to be anything but ‘company’ for Mr. Stoddard.”

“Hank always was a bit conceited,” admitted Kelley. “But then, he is a real, sure-enough miner. We are only ‘capitalists.'”

“Where did Fred get all the signs of toil on his trousers and boots?” she asked, with dancing eyes.

“Oh, he works–part of the time.”

She peered into his face with roguish glance. “Does it all with his legs, I guess. I notice his hands are soft as mine.”

Kelley nearly collapsed. “Good Lord!” he thought. “You ought to be a female detective.” He came to the line gamely. “Well, there’s a good deal of running to be done, and we let him do the outside messenger work.”

“His sunburn seems quite recent. And his trousers don’t fit as his trousers usually do. He used to be finicky about such things.”

“A feller does get kind of careless up here in the hills,” Kelley argued.

They did not stay long in the mine, for there wasn’t much to see. It was a very small mine–and walking made the mother short of breath. And so they came back to the office and Hank arranged seats on some dynamite-boxes and a keg of spikes, and then left them to talk things over.

“I’m so glad you’re up here–where it’s so clean and quiet,” said the mother. “I’m told these mining towns are dreadful, almost barbaric, even yet. Of course they’re not as they were in Bret Harte’s time, but they are said to be rough and dangerous. I hope you don’t have to go down there often.”

“Of course I have to go, mother. We get all our supplies and our mail down there.”

“I suppose that’s true. But Mr. Kelley seems such a strong, capable person”–here she whispered–“but I don’t think much of your other partner, Mr. Stoddard.”

“Who? Old Hank? Why, he’s steady as a clock. He looks rough, but he’s the kindest old chap on the hill. Why, he’s scared to death of you and Flo–“

“He has the appearance of a neglected old bachelor.”

“Well, he isn’t. He has a wife and seven children back in Tennessee–so he says.”