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In his sleep he was ignobly conquered, and Del Bishop, who was with him much, studied his restlessness and gave a ready ear to his mumbled words. The pocket-miner put two and two together, and made a correct induction from the different little things which came under his notice. But this did not require any great astuteness.
Del tossed the canister beside him, and the man clutched it as though it were a sack of nuggets. "Can I be of any use?" she asked, looking up at them. "Nope. Scurvy. Nothing'll do 'em any good but God's country and raw potatoes." The pocket-miner regarded her for a moment. "What are you doing here, anyway? Go on back to high ground." But with a groan and a crash, the ice-wall bulged in.
"Hell!" he repeated in a passionless way, knocking the dirt-covered roots against the pan. Corliss went over and stooped to closer inspection. "Hold on!" he cried, picking up two or three grimy bits of dirt and rubbing them with his fingers. A bright yellow flashed forth. "Hell!" the pocket-miner reiterated tonelessly. "First rattle out the box.
As Vance speedily discovered, he possessed very little correlation between mind and body, and the next thing he discovered was that he was lying in the snow and slowly coming back to his senses. "How how did you do it?" he stammered to the pocket-miner, who had his head on his knee and was rubbing his forehead with snow. "Oh, you'll do!" Del laughed, helping him limply to his feet.
One of my comrades there another of those victims of eighteen years of unrequited toil and blighted hopes was one of the gentlest spirits that ever bore its patient cross in a weary exile: grave and simple Dick Baker, pocket-miner of Dead-Horse Gulch.
Corliss, having terminated a buzz with a Miss Mortimer on the decadence of the French symbolists, encountered Del Bishop. But the pocket-miner remembered him at once from the one glimpse he had caught of Corliss standing by his tent-door in Happy Camp.
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