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MORE PRECIOUS THAN GOLD
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"Yes, Bob, I will come," she whispered.
Next day the papers, in huge type, spread the news of the failure of the Golden Promise Mining Company. The blowing up of a get-rich-quick concern was not so unusual nor sensational as to warrant more than a paragraph or two. The utterly puzzling, amazing, and incredible feature which caused the press to give columns to the affair was the fact that there had been deposited with the Universal Trust and Securities Company the sum of three hundred thousand dollars, enough to redeem every share of the Golden Promise stock, dollar for dollar. That the promoters of the quitting company should deliberately and of their own free will return their loot to the victims was something so foreign to the ethics of high finance as to raise a reasonable presumption of lunacy — at least that was the opinion among certain prosperous and complacent exponents of "modern business methods" who stand high in the Street.
Two years later, Bob Morton, on a
summer afternoon, threw down his pick and carefully examined a bit of ore.
"She's showing up better and better," he muttered, "and when the railroad gets a little nearer, the old 'Patient Hope' will produce a whole lot more than day wages. ' ' He looked at the scarred face of the cliff fondly. He did not observe the man who, very cautiously, was stealing nearer and nearer. An impoverished, brokendown, cheap sport the man appeared to be, and his face was convulsed with hatred. He slowly and carefully leveled a revolver.
As a light step sounded near him, Bob turned, smiling happily, and took into his arms the crowing baby.
"It does him good to come out in the sunshine, and it stimulates you to renewed industry for the remainder of the day, to see him, ' ' Jean laughed.
A queer expression stole across the face of the man watching the little group. He slid the revolver into his pocket, and, silently and cautiously as he had come, and unobserved, he disappeared.
Making Western History
By HARRY E. LOOMES
Whoa, there, Rowdy, hold your ground, That won't hurt you, foolin' 'round, It's just a camera, cant you see, That makes the pictures of you an' me.
We aint out West, you understand, We're making history of Cattle Land In front of painted woolly scenes, Of prairie land and big ravines.
Now watch yourself, you buckskin scamp, Until I rope that greaser tramp That's makin' off across the creek : We're buildin' history mighty quick.
Whoa, there, boy, you're out of range, The picture man has lost his brains. We've got the greaser hard an' tight, But off the film an' out of sight.
Now here's the bunch lined up to go, Of made-up cowboys all aglow, Down they come upon the scene, An' meet the outlaws, with a scream.
The fight is o'er, the girl is saved, The picture man, he jumped an' raved ; The scene was spoiled before the elfish Because the "lead" lost his mustache.