"Is this the way--"
"To the benches of French Hill?" Del snapped him short. "Betcher your
life. That's the way I'm headin'. So long."
He ploughed forward at a tremendous rate, and the correspondent,
half-running, swung in behind with the evident intention of taking the
pace. Corliss, still in the dark, lifted his head and watched them go;
but when he saw the pocket-miner swerve abruptly to the right and take
the trail up Adams Creek, the light dawned upon him and he laughed
softly to himself.
Late that night Del arrived in camp on Eldorado exhausted but jubilant.
"Didn't do a thing to him," he cried before he was half inside the
tent-flaps. "Gimme a bite to eat" (grabbing at the teapot and running
a hot flood down his throat),--"cookin'-fat, slush, old moccasins,
candle-ends, anything!"
Then he collapsed upon the blankets and fell to rubbing his stiff
leg-muscles while Corliss fried bacon and dished up the beans.
"What about 'm?" he exulted between mouthfuls. "Well, you can stack
your chips that he didn't get in on the French Hill benches. _How far
is it, my man_?" (in the well-mimicked, patronizing tones of St.
Vincent). "_How far is it_?" with the patronage left out. "_How far
to French Hill_?" weakly. "_How far do you think it is_?" very weakly,
with a tremolo which hinted of repressed tears. "_How far_--"
The pocket-miner burst into roars of laughter, which were choked by a
misdirected flood of tea, and which left him coughing and speechless.
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