She continued her search for
the pinkish-red stones, carrying the rusty pebble along. Presently she
worked her way back to where Roaring Bill labored prodigiously.
"I feel ashamed to be loafing while you work so hard, Billy-boy," she
greeted.
"Give me a kiss and I'll call it square," he proposed cheerfully. "Got
to work like a beaver, kid. This hot weather'll put us to the bad
before long. There'll be ten feet of water roaring down here one of
these days."
"Look at these pretty stones I found," she said. "What are they, Bill?"
"Those?" He looked at her outstretched palm. "Garnets."
"Garnets? They must be valuable, then," she observed. "The creek's
full of them."
"Valuable? I should say so," he grinned. "I sent a sample to a
Chicago firm once. They replied to the effect that they would take all
I could deliver, and pay thirty-six dollars a ton, f. o. b., my nearest
railroad station."
"Oh!" she protested. "But they're pretty."
"Yes, if you can find one of any size. What's the other rock?" he
inquired casually. "You making a collection of specimens?"
"That's just a funny stone I found," she returned. "It must be iron or
something. It's terribly heavy for its size.
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