This was too good to keep. Holt pulled on his boots and went out to twit
such of the enemy as he might meet. It chanced that the first of them
was Selfridge, whom he had not seen since his arrival, though he knew
the little man was in camp.
"How goes it, Holt? Fine and dandy, eh?" inquired Wally with the
professional geniality he affected.
The old miner shook his head dolefully. "I done bust my laig, Mr.
Selfish," he groaned. It was one of his pleasant ways to affect a
difficulty of hearing and a dullness of understanding, so that he could
legitimately call people by distorted versions of their names. "The old
man don't amount to much nowadays. Onct a man or a horse gits stove up
I don't reckon either one pans out much pay dust any more."
"Nothing to that, Gid. You're younger than you ever were, judging by
your looks."
"Then my looks lie to beat hell, Mr. Selfish."
"My name is Selfridge," explained Wally, a trifle irritated.
Holt put a cupped hand to his ear anxiously. "Shellfish, did you say?
Tha' 's right. Howcome I to forget? The old man's going pretty fast,
Mr. Shellfish. No more memory than a jackrabbit. Say, Mr. Shellfish,
what's the idee of all this here back-to-the-people movement, as the
old sayin' is?"
"I don't know what you mean.
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