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Updated: June 2, 2025
"If they notice her like this in a city," he thought triumphantly, "she'll make 'em sit up in Bartlesville!" Sprudell's cup of happiness seemed running full. "You're looking great to-night," he whispered as they sat down. "Fine feathers " she smiled slightly "my one good gown." "My dear, you can have a hundred a thousand!" he cried extravagantly. "It's up to you!"
Give them this old letter and the picture and this letter, here, of mine. This is half the gold dust our season's work." He placed a heavy canvas sample sack in Sprudell's hand. "Say that Slim sent it; that although they might not think it because he did not write, that just the same he thought an awful lot of them.
Hello," he said to himself, staring at the river which lay like a great, green snake at the base of the mountains, "must be some feller down there placerin'. That's a new cabin, and there's a rocker looks like." "Gold?" Sprudell's eyes became a shade less infantile. "Gold a-plenty; but it takes a lard can full to make a cent and there's no way to get water on the ground."
Bruce found it impossible to keep his attention upon the conversation at his own table. After his first surprise at seeing Sprudell his mind and eyes persisted in fixing themselves upon Sprudell's companion. He could not rid himself of the notion that somewhere he had seen her, or was it only a resemblance?
"I forbid you to answer this fellow " Sprudell's voice shook and his pink face had again taken on the curious chalkiness of color which it became under stress of feeling. Forgetting prudence, his deferential pose, forgetting everything that he should have remembered in his rage at Bruce's hardihood, and the fear of exposure, he shook his finger threateningly before Helen's face.
They called him "The Man from the Bitter Boots," and a staff artist depicted him as a hairy aborigine that Winfield Harrah had had captured to turn loose on the Spanish gladiator. Which humor Bruce did not relish, for Sprudell's taunt that "muscle" was his only asset still rankled.
There was offended dignity in Mr. Sprudell's tone. "You can't," said the old man shortly. "You ain't got no pants, and your shoes is full of snow. I doubts if you has socks till I takes a stick and digs around where your tepee was." "Tsch! Tsch!" Mr. Sprudell's tongue clicked against his teeth in the extreme of exasperation at Uncle Bill.
Ore City nursed a grievance against Dill that was some sorer than a carbuncle and it relieved its feelings by inventing punishments should he ever return to the camp which in ingenuity rivalled the tortures of the Inquisition. Bruce, too, often speculated concerning Dill, for it looked as though he had purposely betrayed Sprudell's interest.
The climax came when he dramatically announced his intention of making a stock company of his acquisition and permitting Bartlesville's leading citizens to subscribe! Mr. Sprudell's guests received the news of the privilege which was to be accorded them in an unenthusiastic silence.
"I haven't one thing on earth to look forward to unless " her hand tightened on a letter inside her muff "unless I take a way out which, in the end, might be worse." Sprudell's note had come by special delivery from the Hotel Strathmore just as she was leaving the office, so she had not stopped to answer it.
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