n to the mines and tell him."

"Ah, Miss, you don't have such men as Tom Ruger out where you come
from," said the driver, as Tom disappeared up the road. "And them nags
of his'n can't be beat this side of the mountains. He makes a heap o'
money with 'em."

"What! a horse-jockey?" exclaimed Miss Borlan.

"We don't call him that, miss. Some says he's a sportin' man, which
ain't nothin' ag'in him, for the country's new, ye see. He's got heaps
o' money anyway, and there ain't a camp nor a town on the coast that
don't know Tom Ruger. Ah, ye don't have such men as Tommy. He'd be at
home in a palace, now wouldn't he? And it's jest the same in a miner's
shanty. Ye don't have such men as he. If he takes a likin' to anybody,
he sticks to 'em through thick and thin; but if he gits ag'in ye once,
he's--the--very--deuce. Ah, ye don't have no such man out where you come
from."

She did not care to dispute this point. In fact, after what she had seen
and heard, she was inclined to believe that there was no such men as Tom
Ruger out where she had come from; so she made no reply; and the driver,
following out his train of thought, rattled on about Tom Ruger until
they came in sight of Ten Mile Gulch, winding up his narrative with the
sage, but rather unexpected, remark, that there weren't no such men as
Tom Ruger out where she had come from.

II.

The barroom at the Miners' Home might have been more crowded at some
former period of its existence, but to have duplicated the two dozen
faces and forms of the two dozen Ten Milers who were congregated there
that beautiful Autumn afternoon would have been a hopeless task.

Ten Mile Gulch had turned out _en masse_, and those same Ten Milers
were distinguished neither for their good looks, nor taste in dress, nor
softness of heart or language, nor elegance of manners. Further than
that we do not care to go at present.

But there was one face and one form absent. No more would the genial
atmosphere of that barroom respond to the heavings of his broad chest,
no more would the dignified concoctor of rare and villainous drinks pass
him the whisky-straight. Alas! Bill Foster had passed in his checks, and
gone the way of all Ten Milers.

And it was this fact that brought these diligent delvers after hidden
treasure from their work, for Bill had not gone in the ordinary way. At
night he was in the full enjoyment of health and a game of poker; in the
morning they found him just outside the