y them, who want to invest their money and wouldn't know a mine if
they saw one; but when they undertake to air their knowledge among these
old fellows who have spent a lifetime in the business, why, they're
likely to get left, that's all. Now, this Parkinson seems to be a pretty
fair sort of man compared with some of them, but between you and me, I'd
wager my last dollar that they'll lose him on that Ajax mine!"

"Why, what's the matter with the Ajax?" Darrell inquired, indifferently.

"Well, as you're not interested in any way, I'm not telling tales out of
school. The Ajax has been a bonanza in its day, but within the last year
or so the bottom has dropped out of the whole thing, and that's the
reason the owners are anxious to sell."

"I hear they ask a pretty good price for the mine."

"Yes, they're trading on her reputation, but that's all past. The mine
is practically worked out. They've made a few good strikes lately, so
that there is some good ore in sight, and this is their chance to sell,
but there are no indications of any permanence. One of our own men was
over there a while ago, and he said there wasn't enough ore in the mine
to keep their mill running full force for more than six months."

"Is this Hunter an expert also?"

"Oh, no; Parkinson said he was a friend of his, just taking the trip for
his health."

Darrell smiled quietly, knowing Hunter to be a member of the syndicate
employing Parkinson, but kept his knowledge to himself.

A little later, when Darrell and Whitcomb left together for the
dining-car, quite a friendship had sprung up between them. There was
that mutual attraction often observed between two natures utterly
diverse. Whitcomb was unaccountably drawn towards the dark-eyed,
courteous, but rather reticent stranger, while his own frank
friendliness and childlike confidence awoke in Darrell's nature a
correlative tenderness and affection which he never would have believed
himself capable of feeling towards one of his own sex.

"I don't know what is the matter with me," said Darrell, as he seated
himself at a table, facing Whitcomb. "My head seems to have a
small-sized stamp-mill inside of it; every bone in my body aches, and my
joints feel as though they were being pulled apart."

Whitcomb looked up quickly. "Are you just from the East, or have you
been out here any time?"

"I stopped for a few days, back here a ways."

"In the mountain country?"

"Yes."

"By George! I belie