enjoy his secret. The heavy hand of Public Opinion was upon
him. Socially he was an outcast. Conversation ceased when he approached
as if he had been a spy. Games of solo, high-five, and piute went on
without him and in heated arguments no one any longer asked his views.

This latter offense however was only an aggravation of the real one
which dated back to the memorable occasion when Wilbur Dill had asked
his opinion of the "secondary enrichment." It was held that a man who
would tell the truth at a time like that was a menace to the camp and
the sooner he moved on the better.

In the early spring the old man had disappeared into the mountain with
powder, drills, and a three months' grub-stake. He had told no one of
his destination, and when he had returned the most he would say was that
he had "been peckin' on a ledge all summer." He sent samples of his rock
outside but did not show the assays. He wrote letters and began to get
mail in blank, non-committal envelopes and added to the general feeling
of exasperation by always being at the desk before even the clerk had
time to make out the postmarks. Oh, he was up to something--that was
certain--something that would "knock" the camp no doubt. They wouldn't
put it past him.

If Uncle Bill felt his exile or harbored resentment at being treated
like a leper he was too proud to give any sign.

There had been but little change in the Hinds House in a year. Only a
close observer would have noted that it had changed at all. There was a
trifle more baling-wire intertwined among the legs of the office chairs
and a little higher polish on the seats. The grease spots on the
unbleached muslin where Ore City rested its head were a shade darker and
the monuments of "spec'mins" were higher. The Jersey organ had lost two
stops and a wooden stalagmite was broken. "Old Man" Hinds in a
praiseworthy attempt to clean his solitaire deck had washed off the
spots or at least faded them so that no one but himself could tell what
they were. The office was darker, too, because of the box-covers nailed
across the windows where a few more panes had gone out. Otherwise it
might have been the very day a year ago that Judge George Petty had
lurched through the snow tunnel jubilantly announcing the arrival of the
stage.

Only this year there was no snow tunnel and the Judge was sober--sober
and despondent.

His attitude of depression reflected more or less the spirit of the
camp, which for once