It came to Fairchild then,-the sentence in his father’s letter regarding some one who would hurry to his aid when he needed him, the references of Beamish, and the allusion of Mother Howard to a faithful friend. He forgot the pain as the tremendous Cornishman banged him on the back, he forgot the surprise of it all; he only knew that he was laughing and welcoming a big man old enough in age to be his father, yet young enough in spirit to want to come back and finish a fight he had seen begun, and strong enough in physique to stand it. Again the heavy voice boomed:

“You know me now, eh?”

“You bet! You ’re Harry Harkins!”

“’Arkins it is! I came just as soon as I got the cablegram!”

“The cablegram?”

“Yeh.” Harry pawed at his wonderful mustache. “From Mr. Beamish, you know. ’E sent it. Said you ’d started out ’ere all alone. And I could n’t stand by and let you do that. So ’ere I am!”

“But the expense, the long trip across the ocean, the-”

“’Ere I am!” said Harry again. “Ain’t that enough?”

They had reached the veranda now, to stand talking for a moment, then to go within, where Mother Howard awaited, eyes glowing, in the parlor. Harry flung out both arms.

“And I still love you!” he boomed, as he caught the gray-haired, laughing woman in his arms. “Even if you did run me off and would n’t go back to Cornwall!”

Red-faced, she pushed him away and slapped his cheek playfully; it was like the tap of a light breeze against granite. Then Harry turned.

“’Ave you looked at the mine?”

The question brought back to Fairchild the happenings of the morning and the memory of the man who had trailed him. He told his story, while Mother Howard listened, her arms crossed, her head bobbing, and while Harry, his big grin still on his lips, took in the details with avidity. Then for a moment a monstrous hand scrambled vaguely about in the region of the Cornishman’s face, grasping a hair of that radiating mustache now and then and pulling hard at it, at last to drop,-and the grin faded.

“Le ’s go up there,” he said quietly.

This time the trip to Kentucky gulch was made by skirting town; soon they were on the rough, narrow roadway leading into the mountains. Both were silent for the most part, and the expression on Harry’s face told that he was living again the days of the past, days when men were making those pock-marks in the hills, when the prospector and his pack jack could be seen on every trail, and when float ore in a gulley meant riches waiting somewhere above. A long time they walked, at last to stop in the shelter of the rocks where Fairchild had shadowed his pursuer, and to glance carefully ahead. No one was in sight. Harry jabbed out a big finger.

“That’s it,” he announced, “straight a’ead!”

They went on, Fairchild with a gripping at his throat that would not down. This had been the hope of his father-and here his father had met-what? He swerved quickly and stopped, facing the bigger man.

“Harry,” came sharply, “I know that I may be violating an unspoken promise to my father. But I simply can’t stand it any longer. What happened here?”

“We were mining-for silver.”

“I don’t mean that-there was some sort of tragedy.”

Harry chuckled,-in concealment, Fairchild thought, of something he did not want to tell him.

“I should think so! The timbers gave way and the mine caved in!”

“Not that! My father ran away from this town. You and Mother Howard helped him. You didn’t come back. Neither did my father. Eventually it killed him.”

“So?” Harry looked seriously and studiously at the young man. “’E did n’t write me of’en.”

“He did n’t need to write you. You were here with him-when it happened.”

“No-” Harry shook his head. “I was in town.”

“But you knew-”

“What’s Mother Howard told you?”

“A lot-and nothing.”

“I don’t know any more than she does.”

“But-”

“Friends did n’t ask questions in those days,” came quietly. “I might ’ave guessed if I ’d wanted to-but I did n’t want to.”

“But if you had?”

Harry looked at him with quiet, blue eyes.

“What would you guess?”

Slowly Robert Fairchild’s gaze went to the ground. There was only one possible conjecture: Sissie Larsen had been impersonated by a woman. Sissie Larsen had never been seen again in Ohadi.

“I-I would hate to put it into words,” came finally. Harry slapped him on the shoulder.

“Then don’t. It was nearly thirty years ago. Let sleeping dogs lie. Take a look around before we go into the tunnel.”

They reconnoitered, first on one side, then on the other. No one was in sight. Harry bent to the ground, and finding a pitchy pine knot, lighted it. They started cautiously within, blinking against the darkness.

A detour and they avoided an ore car, rusty and half filled, standing on the little track, now sagging on moldy ties. A moment more of walking and Harry took the lead.

“It’s only a step to the shaft now,” he cautioned. “Easy-easy-look out for that ’anging wall-” he held the pitch torch against the roof of the tunnel and displayed a loose, jagged section of rock, dripping with seepage from the hills above. “Just a step now-’ere it is.”

The outlines of a rusty “hoist”, with its cable leading down into a slanting hole in the rock, showed dimly before them,-a massive, chunky, deserted thing in the shadows. About it were clustered drills that were eaten by age and the dampness of the seepage; farther on a “skip”, or shaft-car, lay on its side, half buried in mud and muck from the walls of the tunnel. Here, too, the timbers were rotting; one after another, they had cracked and caved beneath the weight of the earth above, giving the tunnel an eerie aspect, uninviting, dangerous. Harry peered ahead.

“It ain’t as bad as it looks,” came after a moment’s survey. “It’s only right ’ere at the beginning that it’s caved. But that does n’t do us much good.”

“Why not?” Fairchild was staring with him, on toward the darkness of the farther recesses. “If it is n’t caved in farther back, we ought to be able to repair this spot.”

But Harry shook his head.

“We did n’t go into the vein ’ere,” he explained. “We figured we ’ad to ’ave a shaft anyway, sooner or later. You can’t do under’and stoping in a mine-go down on a vein, you know. You ’ve always got to go up-you can’t get the metal out if you don’t. That’s why we dug this shaft-and now look at it!”

He drew the flickering torch to the edge of the shaft and held it there, staring downward. Fairchild beside him. Twenty feet below there came the glistening reflection of the flaring flame. Water! Fairchild glanced toward his partner.

“I don’t know anything about it,” he said at last. “But I should think that would mean trouble.”

“Plenty!” agreed Harry lugubriously. “That shaft’s two ’unnerd feet deep and there ‘s a drift running off it for a couple o’ ’unnerd feet more before it ’its the vein. Four ’unnerd feet of water. ’Ow much money ’ave you got?”

“About twenty-five hundred dollars.”

Harry reached for his waving mustache, his haven in time of storm. Thoughtfully he pulled at it, staring meanwhile downward. Then he grunted.

“And I ain’t got more ’n five ’unnerd. It ain’t enough. We ’ll need to repair this ’oist and put the skip in order. We ’ll need to build new track and do a lot of things. Three thousand dollars ain’t enough.”

“But we ’ll have to get that water out of there before we can do anything.” Fairchild interposed. “If we can’t get at the vein up here, we ’ll have to get at it from below. And how ’re we going to do that without unwatering that shaft?”

Again Harry pulled at his mustache.

“That’s just what ’Arry ’s thinking about,” came his answer finally. “Le ’s go back to town. I don’t like to stand around this place and just look at water in a ’olé.”

They turned for the mouth of the tunnel, sliding along in the greasy muck, the torch extinguished now. A moment of watchfulness from the cover of the darkness, then Harry pointed. On the opposite hill, the figure of a man had been outlined for just a second. Then he had faded. And with the disappearance of the watcher, Harry nudged his partner in the ribs and went forth into the brighter light. An hour more and they were back in town. Harry reached for his mustache again.

“Go on down to Mother ’Oward’s,” he commanded. “I ’ve got to wander around and say ’owdy to what’s left of the fellows that was ’ere when I was. It’s been twenty years since I ’ve been away, you know,” he added, “and the shaft can wait.”

Fairchild obeyed the instructions, looking back over his shoulder as he walked along toward the boarding house, to see the big figure of his companion loitering up the street, on the beginning of his home-coming tour. It was evident that Harry was popular. Forms rose from the loitering places on the curbings in front of the stores, voices called to him; even as the distance grew greater, Fairchild could hear the shouts of greeting which were sounding to Harry as he announced his return.

The blocks passed. Fairchild turned through the gate of Mother Howard’s boarding house and went to his room to await the call for dinner. The world did not look exceptionally good to him; his brilliant dreams had not counted upon the decay of more than a quarter of a century, the slow, but sure dripping of water which had seeped through the hills and made the mine one vast well, instead of the free open gateway to riches which he had planned upon. True, there had been before him the certainty of a cave-in, but Fairchild was not a miner, and the word to him had been a vague affair. Now, however, it was taking on a new aspect; he was beginning to realize the full extent of the fight which was before him if the Blue Poppy mine ever were to turn forth the silver ore he hoped to gain from it, if the letter of his father, full of threats though it might be, were to be realized in that part of it which contained the promise of riches in abundance.

Pitifully small his capital looked to Fairchild now. Inadequate-that was certain-for the needs which now stood before it. And there was no person to whom he could turn, no one to whom he could go, for more. To borrow, one must have security; and with the exception of the faith of the red-faced Harry, and the promise of a silent man, now dead, there was nothing. It was useless; an hour of thought and Fairchild ceased trying to look into the future, obeying, instead, the insistent clanging of the dinner bell from downstairs. Slowly he opened the door of his room, trudged down the staircase,-then stopped in bewilderment. Harry stood before him, in all the splendor that a miner can know.

He had bought a new suit, brilliant blue, almost electric in its flashiness, nor had he been careful as to style. The cut of the trousers was somewhat along the lines of fifteen years before, with their peg tops and heavy cuffs. Beneath the vest, a glowing, watermelon-pink shirt glared forth from the protection of a purple tie. A wonderful creation was on his head, dented in four places, each separated with almost mathematical precision. Below the cuffs of the trousers were bright, tan, bump-toed shoes. Harry was a complete picture of sartorial elegance, according to his own dreams. What was more, to complete it all, upon the third finger of his right hand was a diamond, bulbous and yellow and throwing off a dull radiance like the glow of a burnt-out arclight; full of flaws, it is true, off color to a great degree, but a diamond nevertheless. And Harry evidently realized it.

“Ain’t I the cuckoo?” he boomed, as Fairchild stared at him. “Ain’t I? I ’ad to ’ave a outfit, and-

“It might as well be now!” he paraphrased, to the tune of the age-whitened sextette from “Floradora.” “And look at the sparkler! Look at it!”

Fairchild could do very little else but look. He knew the value, even in spite of flaws and bad coloring. And he knew something else, that Harry had confessed to having little more than five hundred dollars.

“But-but how did you do it?” came gaspingly. “I thought-”

“Installments!” the Cornishman burst out. “Ten per cent. down and the rest when they catch me. Installments!” He jabbed forth a heavy finger and punched Fairchild in the ribs. “Where’s Mother ’Oward? Won’t I knock ’er eyes out?”

Fairchild laughed-he couldn’t help it-in spite of the fact that five hundred dollars might have gone a long way toward unwatering that shaft. Harry was Harry-he had done enough in crossing the seas to help him. And already, in the eyes of Fairchild, Harry was swiftly approaching that place where he could do no wrong.

“You ’re wonderful, Harry,” came at last. The Cornishman puffed with pride.

“I’m a cuckoo!” he admitted. “Where’s Mother ’Oward? Where’s Mother ’Oward? Won’t I knock ’er eyes out, now?”

And he boomed forward toward the dining room, to find there men he had known in other days, to shake hands with them and to bang them on the back, to sight Blindeye Bozeman and Taylor Bill sitting hunched over their meal in the corner and to go effusively toward them. “’Arry” was playing no favorites in his “’ome-coming.” “’Arry” was “’appy”, and a little thing like the fact that friends of his enemies were present seemed to make little difference.

Jovially he leaned over the table of Bozeman and Bill, after he had displayed himself before Mother Howard and received her sanction of his selections in dress. Happily he boomed forth the information that Fairchild and he were back to work the Blue Poppy mine and that they already had made a trip of inspection.

“I ’m going back this afternoon,” he told them. “There ’s water in the shaft. I ’ve got to figure a wye to get it out.”

Then he returned to his table and Fairchild leaned close to him.

“Is n’t that dangerous?”

“What?” Harry allowed his eyes to become bulbous as he whispered the question. “Telling them two about what we ’re going to do? Won’t they find it out anyway?”

“I guess that’s true. What time are you going to the mine?”

“I don’t know that I ’m going. And then I may. I ’ve got to kind of sye ’ello around town first.”

“Then I ’m not to go with you?”

Harry beamed at him.

“It’s your day off, Robert,” he announced, and they went on with their meal.

That is, Fairchild proceeded. Harry did little eating. Harry was too busy. Around him were men he had known in other days, men who had stayed on at the little silver camp, fighting against the inevitable downward course of the price of the white metal, hoping for the time when resuscitation would come, and now realizing that feeling of joy for which they had waited a quarter of a century. There were a thousand questions to be answered, all asked by Harry. There was gossip to relate and the lives of various men who had come and gone to be dilated upon. Fairchild finished his meal and waited. But Harry talked on. Bozeman and Bill left the dining room again to make a report to the narrow-faced Squint Rodaine. Harry did not even notice them. And as long as a man stayed to answer his queries, just so long did Harry remain, at last to rise, brush a few crumbs from his lightning-like suit, press his new hat gently upon his head with both hands and start forth once more on his rounds of saying hello. And there was nothing for Fairchild to do but to wait as patiently as possible for his return.

The afternoon grew old. Harry did not come back. The sun set and dinner was served. But Harry was not there to eat it. Dusk came, and then, nervous over the continued absence of his eccentric partner, Fairchild started uptown.

The usual groups were in front of the stores, and before the largest of them Fairchild stopped.

“Do any of you happen to know a fellow named Harry Harkins?” he asked somewhat anxiously. The answer was in the affirmative. A miner stretched out a foot and surveyed it studiously.

“Ain’t seen him since about five o’clock,” he said at last. “He was just starting up to the mine then.”

“To the mine? That late? Are you sure?”

“Well-I dunno. May have been going to Center City. Can’t say. All I know is he said somethin’ about goin’ to th’ mine earlier in th’ afternoon, an’ long about five I seen him starting up Kentucky Gulch.”

“Who ’s that?” The interruption had come in a sharp, yet gruff voice. Fairchild turned to see before him a man he recognized, a tall, thin, wiry figure, with narrowed, slanting eyes, and a scar that went straight up his forehead. He evidently had just rounded the corner in time to hear the conversation. Fairchild straightened, and in spite of himself his voice was strained and hard.

“I was merely asking about my partner in the Blue Poppy mine.”

“The Blue Poppy?” the squint eyes narrowed more than ever. “You ’re Fairchild, ain’t you? Well, I guess you ’re going to have to get along without a partner from now on.”

“Get along without ?”

A crooked smile came to the other man’s lips.

“That is, unless you want to work with a dead man. Harry Harkins got drowned, about an hour ago, in the Blue Poppy shaft!”