Julian Mortimer

“He must have had a tremendous job to build a dam that would make a pond over thirty feet deep,” commented Tom.

“No; it wasn’t such a big job. Luck was with him and started the work. Just before Martin began, a landslide filled up the narrow space between the two mountains where they come together. You can see this from the other side of the dam. There wasn’t much left to be done; he drove some logs and did some filling in; the stream gradually filled up the hollow, and when the water rose as high as the dam it began to run off down the pass just as it used to, leaving a deposit on the bottom of the basin that has been rising ever since.”

“But, Mr. Brunt,” asked Phil indifferently, “haven’t you ever thought of following up the inspector’s idea of separating the gold that is in the bottom?”

“I can’t say I have – not seriously. There must be a great deal of the dust there, but the proportion is so small that I guess it wouldn’t be worth while to waste any money on such a scheme.”

Hearing this, Tom cast a sly glance at Phil as if to say, “What did I tell you?” but he saw that Phil was driving at something and he had sense enough to say nothing.

The milking was done, and they all went back to breakfast, where they were met by Mrs. Brunt, whose round face was all aglow from the labors of cooking. Then they went down to the strip of meadow again and made an onslaught on the hay-field, in which Tom, who tackled that part not yet mowed, cut such a swath as made old Sol stare. They finished early in the day, and as they turned back to the store the owner surveyed the stack he and Phil had built with the greatest satisfaction imaginable, remarking that the two had accomplished in less than a day what would have taken him the best part of a week.

Phil had indeed worked hard during the day; he had thought hard also. Ideas had been chasing through his head in numbers. How rich in gold was the deposit? How could he test it? How could it be separated in bulk at a cost low enough to pay? Ah, that was the vital question of the whole matter! And yet if that were solved other questions would follow. How to promote or float the scheme? Whom to apply to? How to proportion the profits? Yes, Phil had been thinking very hard, indeed, and thinking to such purpose as to be fully prepared to talk to the point. The subject of the pay bottom was not referred to again during the day; but when they had taken their places in the doorway, as on the previous evening, while the merry rattle of the plates and the “clink” of the knives and forks and spoons betokened dish washing in the kitchen, Phil began to speak his little piece.

“I want to talk to you seriously, Mr. Brunt, about a matter that I have had in mind since yesterday. As we came down from the Notch I noticed the muddy bed of the stream, and remarked to Tom here, that I believed if that sediment could be coraled there would be money in it. I found this morning that another great mind – and Phil laughed at his own conceit – had run in the same channel, and had built twenty-five years ago what I had proposed yesterday as a good thing.

“Now, Mr. Brunt, if I can show you that your idle pond is exceedingly valuable in gold, I want to know if you will share equally with me any profits that I may show you the way to get out of it?”

Sol chuckled good-naturedly, but incredulously, and said:

“Aye, aye, my boy! You can have half the profits and more too.”

“It is agreed seriously?” persisted Phil.

“All right, my boy – only understand I put up no money.”

“That leads me right to the next point. Providing, as before, I could prove value here, a third man or syndicate, or something meaning capital, would have to be brought in. Speaking in a general way, will you agree to give the use of this bottom and your adjoining land on a basis of, say, one-third of the profits to each of the three concerned – you, for your mine; myself, for the process I know I can invent, and the third man for his money to float the enterprise.”

Phil was conscious all the while that he was furnishing Mr. Brunt with more amusement than matter for earnest thought, but having obtained a really serious promise of the donation of land on the basis referred to – always providing of course, it could be proved by actual test that the gold could be separated at a profit – Phil took Sol inside, where in the lamplight he told all his ideas and schemes, his theory of the separating process and a score of other points, while Tom could only stare open mouthed and wonder where his chum had learned all this about stock companies and spiral wheels and hydraulics.

By-and-by the dubious smile vanished from the face of Sol Brunt, and he not only listened seriously and admiringly to Phil, but also supplemented his proposals with suggestions, corrections and advice that his mature experience stamped as very valuable. But Sol’s part in the discussion was taken only on the hypothesis that the twenty per cent of waste gold that was doubtless in the silt could be got at, and it was arranged that the next day a test should begin by hand. If the test panned out, machinery would step in and do in one hour what manual labor would take days to accomplish; and, as Phil shrewdly pointed out, one of Sol’s own original ideas would supply by natural means one of the necessities for the mechanical process – power – which otherwise would be a huge item of running expenses.

Accordingly, next morning the boys sallied out, accompanied by Sol, to overlook their operations. They carried with them a barrel, buckets to carry the silt and a scale to weigh it. They set up a barrel and half filled it with water, then into it they dumped several bucketfuls of silt. With staves they stirred the mixture so violently that each particle of fine silt must have been separated from the others. When at last they stopped they were dripping with perspiration. They gave the muddy water a few minutes to partly settle and allow the grains of gold, if any there were, to make their way to the bottom of the barrel; then by tipping the barrel carefully the water was drained off, leaving only a few inches of residue at the bottom of which was a thin layer of mud – and gold? – that was the question. It was not time to answer yet. In went half a barrelful of water and more buckets of silt. This was agitated as before and the water again drawn off.

When this had been repeated several times it was noticed that the layer of mud on the bottom was a foot deep. Thereupon two washings of this were had in the same way without adding new silt, until the deposit at the bottom had been partly drained off. Then more silt was stirred in, and so they labored nearly all day, until Sol called time, saying there was no use of wearing themselves out.

The next day the work was continued until afternoon when they had at the bottom of the barrel the residue of about two hundred and fifty pounds of silt; in this residue, only some six inches thick, was to be found nearly every grain of gold that the successive lots of silt had contained. It was time for the test. They broke the barrel, and carefully scraped and washed every grain of the muddy residue into the largest porcelain basin that Sol’s store contained, and in this more limited way made many successive washings until at last at the bottom of the white basin there gleamed nothing but a fine golden sand sparking in the sunlight. There was gold in the mud, that was certain. How much and in what proportion was the next question? They thoroughly dried the golden sediment and called Sol’s fine apothecary’s scales into requisition. The dust weighed just five penny-weights.

Phil had no sooner ascertained the weight than he began figuring excitedly on a scrap of paper. This is what he was figuring on: “A layer of mud, quarter mile square and average thickness of thirty feet – how many tons of silt are there?”

His recollection of tables of weights and measures was perfect and he could therefore calculate this approximately, as can any schoolboy. He figured about three hundred and sixty thousand tons. Then he calculated: “Five penny-weights of gold to about two hundred and fifty pounds of silt, makes, say forty dollars per ton and – ”

“Mr. Brunt,” said Phil, looking up and with difficulty restraining his excitement, “I figure there is at this moment in that pond nearly FIFTEEN MILLION DOLLARS’ worth of dust!”

Months had passed; Phil and Tom had come to Cheyenne City with a letter from Sol Brunt to the president of the Placer Notch Mining Company – Mr. Van Amrandt – introducing Phil’s scheme and authorizing Phil to represent him in the preliminary discussion of the whole matter.

Phil had impressed Mr. Van Amrandt most favorably as a young man whose youthful enthusiasm was held in check by a thoughtfulness and judgment beyond his years. But time had passed; the president had been very busy with other matters, or there had always been some other reason to keep things at a stand-still for a long while. Finally the president went so far as to have the superintendent of the “P. N.” mine go down to Sol’s place and assay a quantity of the silt. Phil and Tom had been enabled to bide a winter’s delay as far as actual needs went, through the kindness of the president who had given them both subordinate clerical positions in the company’s office; there Phil was looked upon rather suspiciously by his fellow clerks as a sort of upstart who, by some hook or crook, could procure long interviews with the president and engineer, and come out of their respective offices looking as if he had been discussing questions of tremendous importance, as, in fact, he had.

One afternoon in March the door of Mr. Van Amrandt’s private office opened and the president himself stood on the threshold with a paper in his hand.

“I say, Gormley, come here, will you?” and he retired again to his desk.

Phil rose and entered the private room.

“Shut the door and sit down. I have here the report of Jasper who has been assaying up at Brunt’s “duck pond.” He reports forty-one dollars to the ton – a little better than your own estimate.”

Phil’s heart beat away at a tremendous rate all this while, and when the result of the assay was announced it seemed to stop altogether. The president continued in a most matter-of-fact tone:

“I have just told the engineer to go over those plans of yours which he has approved in a general way and, in connection with yourself, perfect the details of your device.”

Phil seemed to hear this from a great distance, and Mr. Van Amrandt seemed to be far off and in a sort of mist. He could not move or speak or even think – he could only comprehend the joyful news.

“By the time the designs are perfected I shall have procured the necessary appropriation from the directors for the machinery. They have terrible tales to tell of the weather up in the Notch it seems, Gormley; only last week there was a heavy fall of snow which the superintendent says is swelling the streams greatly as it melts. To return to the subject, though, I have just sent Jasper’s messenger back with a message to Brunt, asking him to come into town to sign a conveyance of his claim to the company; then we will issue the new stock to Brunt and yourself on the basis we spoke of last month.”

By this time Phil had regained his self-possession. He rose and began:

“Mr. Van Amrandt, I thank you very – ” when the door opened and Sol Brunt appeared on the threshold. He advanced dejectedly and said:

“The dam burst yesterday! Twenty streams from the sides of the hollow are tearing into the basin, and what silt is left by to-morrow I will sell you for a ten dollar note!”

The clerks outside were startled by the sound of a heavy fall.

Phil Gormley had given way under the blow.

A fortune lost! you will say. Yes; part of the fourteen millions was washed away, part was covered by the debris of land slides which the unusual freshet of that spring caused. What remained amounted to nothing in comparison. That was five years ago. The Placer Notch Mining Company has been reorganized since – just a few weeks ago, in fact, and this whole matter was only brought back to my mind at this time by the receipt of a letter from a friend of mine, who announced that he has just been put in on the reorganization as secretary of the company. I refer, of course, to Phil Gormley. He lost his lucky fortune, but he is working out a better one, because it is coming slowly and with honest difficulty. But it was his idea of working the “duck pond” that planted this slow-growing tree of fortune, for it was that which took him to the company’s office.

Out here on my quiet farm I do not hear many echoes from the busy outside world, but none could give me greater pleasure than does such news of my dear friend Phil – for I am no other than Doubting Thomas Danvers.

THE GRANTHAM DIAMONDS

By Russell Stockton.

HOW it did snow, to be sure! The flakes, and very small ones they were, came down in slanting drives or bewildering spirals, to be taken up again from the earth in fierce gusts and whisked along in blinding drifts.

John, the austere-looking butler, was putting the finishing touches on a tempting spread in the dining-room of the Grantham mansion. There was a salad and a dish of nuts; there was a generous plate of cake and a heaping pile of gorgeous red apples; but it would never do not to have something hot on such a cold night as this, so, alongside of a silver chafing dish was a fine English cheese and two eggs, which of course meant rarebits, and a tea urn with six dainty and varied tea cups and saucers, which of course meant girls.

The antique hall clock blinked like an old man at the dancing flames in the great fire-place and slowly sounded eight o’clock. Almost at once there came the merry jingle of sleigh bells, then a few shrill shrieks, a ring, and then a fierce stamping of small feet on the veranda.

Almost before John’s dignity could carry him to the hall door, Miss Maud Grantham ran swiftly down the stairs, followed, partly on the stairs, but mainly on the bannisters, by little Bobbie Grantham. Four rosy and very pretty faces came in with the snow gust at the door; there was much embracing and such a chattering, Maud failed to get a word in edgeways, and so resorted to the exorcism of holding aloft the yellow sheet of paper she held in her hand so that every eye could see it. The effect was instantaneous: a hush fell on the quartet at the sight of that dreadful messenger – a telegram.

“Now don’t be afraid, girls! It’s nothing very terrible,” and she handed the sheet to Sadie Stillwell, who read aloud:

“Hudson, N. Y., Nov. 28, 1891.

“To C. V. Grantham, Yonkers, N. Y. – Train stalled. Don’t expect us till morning.

Wes.”

If the girls looked relieved for a moment they certainly showed regret the next, especially Minnie Trumbull; but she said nothing. Ella Bromley, on the contrary, exclaimed in great vexation:

“What a shame! For two whole days I’ve been promising myself such a time teasing that scamp Dick almost to death. I think it’s too bad.”

“Never mind,” replied Sadie; “you will have four days in which to work out your horrible purpose. Why, is not slow torture better than killing him off in one night?”

“Why, girls! How can you stand there joking,” spoke up Grace Waldron, “while those poor boys are slowly freezing to death in the middle of a snow bank?”

“Nonsense!” replied Maud. “Where there’s a telegraph office there must be a station and a stove. It is too bad, indeed, that Wes and Dick must miss the little surprise party. But come along! I’ve done everything to help out for a jolly time. There’s the supper – I’ve had that all fixed, and I’ve told John we wouldn’t want him, so he’s gone off to bed, I suppose. Then mamma and papa have gone to the Bruces’ musicale, so there isn’t a soul in the house to disturb. Isn’t that just delightful?”

With a deafening din of joyous exclamations they followed Maud Grantham into the music room, and there all the evening they played games, and gossiped, and danced and sang, totally unsuspicious of the grave proceedings that were taking place within sound of their voices.

While this festive event was in progress Wesley and Richard Grantham, the sons of a wealthy New York banker, were really speeding on toward their home by the Eastern express. About four o’clock in the afternoon they had run into a snow drift just after drawing away from the station at Hudson. Things had looked for a time as if they were to be held in that town over night: so, when the train had backed to the station they had sent the telegram to their father. But when they saw a crowd of laborers file off with spades and shovels toward the deep drift, they had followed and watched the work, done in the faint light of many lamps; and they had of course chafed and grumbled, as well they might at being delayed on the eve of a school holiday and almost at the threshold of their luxurious home, quite oblivious of the fortunate outcome of the delay.

The fierce winds that had swept the drift in place had helped to clear it away, and by six o’clock, when it had long been dark, the laborers had shoveled it nearly all off. The train moved out and plunged into the shallow layer of snow that remained, sweeping it up into the air in great feathery plumes, and the obstruction was vanquished.

“See that group, Dick! What a picture! Did you notice the beautiful effect of the tiny lights on the snow and how weird those grim Italians – ”

“How about a good hot cup of coffee and the burning logs in the fireplace – there’s a picture for you!” scoffed young Dick, who had not yet cultivated that eye for the picturesque that his elder brother affected, and little more was said during the remainder of the ride.

It was about ten o’clock when they slowed up at Yonkers. The boys tumbled out of the train and halted to turn up coat collars and pull mufflers more closely around their throats.

“Not a carriage in sight? Well, I like this! It would seem as if everything was contriving to keep us away from home on the eve of Thanksgiving,” growled Dick.

“We can certainly appreciate our good home all the more. Perhaps we can give thanks more heartily for it to-morrow.”

“Oh, bother!” was Dick’s reply. He was an impatient youth, certainly. “Who’d expect a fellow to feel thankful when he had to climb a little St. Bernard in a storm like this. Here goes for footing it, if you’re ready!”

They grasped their traps and plunged into the inky darkness, and in a moment were at the foot of the steep hill. The wind was cutting and the snow blinding. Even if they had not kept their heads well down against the blast they could not have seen an arm’s length before them – only a dimly white sheet under their feet.

Dick, plunging ahead knee deep in the snow suddenly felt a terrific shock; for an instant he knew nothing; then he came to the realization that he was lying on his back in a snow bank with Wesley bending close over him and calling his name anxiously. He sat upright at once and confusedly asked:

“What was that, Wes? I did not see a thing.”

“It seemed to be a man running down the hill. After he collided with you he just brushed me. Look! there he is now!”

Wes was pointing toward the station, where the train, for some reason delayed, was just beginning to move out. What Wes saw through the falling snow was the figure of a tall man dash into the circle of the station’s dim light and leap on the platform of the last car, just passing away. It all occurred in an instant and Dick looked too late to see the hurrying figure.

“Did you recognize him, Wes?”

“No, of course not. The snow blurs everything at such a distance.”

“Worse luck! I wish he’d missed that train. I’d go right back and interview him – yes I would! I think I’m hurt, Wes; that fellow’s elbow or shoulder struck me over the eye.”

“Just a moment and I will light one of those fusees. It is fortunate I bought them from that ragged Italian – nothing else would hold an instant in this gale.”

After some fumbling in pockets with gloved hands the box of vesuvians was found. Wesley struck one and by its sputtering light examined as best he could Dick’s eye. There was only a slight abrasion, apparently, but as Dick complained of a smarting in the eyeball a handkerchief was tied over the injured orb.

“Now how are we ever to find our traps? They must have gone in every direction. Oh, I’d just like to – ” Dick shook his fist at the darkness in the direction of the departed train and then began to tramp around in the snow to find his things. First, Wesley put his foot into Dick’s hat which had rolled some distance off; then Dick kicked his bundle of canes and umbrellas and, lastly, he tumbled flat over his large hand satchel. He felt around it and then broke out again:

“I am a stupid. I never strapped this confounded bag in the car and the lock has slipped. The thing is perfectly empty, Wes!”

“Let us see what we can do with the aid of these fusees, Dick. They are a good example of ‘bread upon the waters,’ aren’t they.”

“Hang it! I’m thinking of bread in a better place just now. Come! give me some of those things, too. If we don’t get along soon I shall freeze stiff.”

They burned one after another of the vesuvians and gathered up all sorts of miscellaneous things in the way of clothing and boxes and little packages and what not, and at last they concluded it was useless to look further, as every inch of ground had been gone over for quite some distance. The things were jammed in pell mell and the bag was strapped this time: then they again began the ascent, cold to their very bones.

It was a toilsome tramp up the hill in knee-deep snow, with sometimes a soft drift into which the travelers would plunge and flounder around till they could finally extricate themselves. But at last the warm lights of the brilliantly illuminated mansions on the Crescent began to light the way and cheer them on, and, in a very few minutes the great Grantham house came into sight, all dark excepting the music room. There the windows were a blaze of light, and, when the boys reached the terrace, the sound of a piano almost drowned in girlish laughter, vied with the whistling and wheezing of the wind.

“Methinks there is a ‘sound of revelry by night,’” quoted Dick. “Wonder what’s up.”

The boys tiptoed along the veranda and peeped in on the bright scene.

“Great Scott, Wes! you’re in luck; there’s Minnie Trumbull at the piano,” and he nudged his elder brother in a knowing way; for Minnie, be it known, was a rather serious girl who read deep books, painted in water colors and played the piano brilliantly, and it was toward her that Wes usually gravitated when he was at home.

“I am very sorry for you, Dick, for I see Ella Bromley there, dancing with our sister, and I know you are in for a quarrel;” at which Dick looked a little conscious, for when Dick was at home he wanted nothing better than to quarrel with Ella, just for the pleasure of making up.

At this moment a shrill shriek pierced the air. One of the girls had discovered two faces glaring in at the window: one had a bandaged eye and “Tramps!” was the idea that for an instant filled every mind. But the boys pressed their faces closer to the glass; there was a general recognition and an impetuous rush to the hall door.

Handshaking, questioning, explanation, a great pulling off of coats helped by willing hands – such a hearty welcome home made up for all their trials and misfortunes on the way.

“Maud, if you’ll ring for John to carry these things upstairs, Dick and I will go to our rooms for a few minutes to get into presentable shape,” said Wes.

“I’m sorry, boys, but you’ll have to carry the things yourself, for I sent all the servants off to bed hours ago.”

“Well! it seems we’ve got another climb, after all, Wes,” and the boys disappeared above.

Just as every one was sitting down to the supper table Mr. and Mrs. Grantham came in and another round of loving greeting ensued. When the parents retired upstairs the fun around the supper-table became furious. At its height Mr. Grantham came to the threshold of the room and said:

“Boys, I shall have to take you away for a few minutes.”

The words were said pleasantly enough, but Sadie was sensitive enough to notice something in her father’s tone that placed her in dread. She followed the boys and asked fearfully: