Before I go any further, I’d like to tell you that I came very near
being financially fixed so that I’d never have to insinuate to you again
that I need money.
I never knowed one little spotted calf to cause so much argument, Hank.
You act like I was going to tell the sheriff. I don’t care if you never
heard of the Widder Heffliger or never expect to. I never did either
until Devil Creek spoke of her.
Hank, you’re an awful josher when you say that you wouldn’t pay
twenty-five dollars for all my ribs if they’d hang all the rest of my
bones on for good measure. I ain’t asking you to buy my bones, but I
sure do need money for repairs.
Hank, did you ever hear of “Bedrock” Bump? Sounds like falling down a
prospect hole and is about as bad, but it’s a man’s name. Just a old
prospector, Hank, but I don’t turn up my nose at no man just as long as
his occupation is honest.
Bedrock’s troubles is financial like mine. He’s got a prospect and a
prospective buyer, but the buyer knows something about minerals, and
Bedrock ain’t got no mineral to show him. I know a lot about mines,
Hank, like I do about mostly everything else; so I asks Bedrock what
kind of a mine he’s got.
“Well,” says he, “it’s been assayed for everything except gold and ain’t
showed a trace; so we’ll call it a gold-mine. It’s reasonable to suppose
it must be some kind of a mine, or it wouldn’t be nothing but a hole.”
He introduces me to this mine-buyer, whose name is Archibald. I wishes
him many happy dividends, and he treats us internally.
Me and Bedrock gets into executive session on the proposition and talks
it over.
“If I wasn’t a honest man, I could sell this mine, and then me and you
could live easy,” says he.