"Well, my name's Cribbens," answered the other. The two shook hands
solemnly.
"You're about finished?" continued Cribbens, pushing back. "Le's go out
in the bar an' have a drink on it."
"Sure, sure," said the dentist.
The two sat up late that night in a corner of the barroom discussing
the probability of finding gold in the Panamint hills. It soon became
evident that they held differing theories. McTeague clung to the old
prospector's idea that there was no way of telling where gold was until
you actually saw it. Cribbens had evidently read a good many books upon
the subject, and had already prospected in something of a scientific
manner.
"Shucks!" he exclaimed. "Gi' me a long distinct contact between
sedimentary and igneous rocks, an' I'll sink a shaft without ever SEEING
'color.'"
The dentist put his huge chin in the air. "Gold is where you find it,"
he returned, doggedly.
"Well, it's my idea as how pardners ought to work along different
lines," said Cribbens. He tucked the corners of his mustache into
his mouth and sucked the tobacco juice from them. For a moment he was
thoughtful, then he blew out his mustache abruptly, and exclaimed:
"Say, Carter, le's make a go of this.
Pages:
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471