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Updated: May 29, 2025
Establishes standards of conduct, raises high ideals in the mind of the reader. Of course, looking at it from that point of view " Obviously Mr. Sprudell was weakening. "That's the view you must take of it," insisted Miss Dunbar sweetly. Mr. Sprudell regarded his toe. Charming as she was, he wondered if she could do the interview him justice.
"I'd like to hear about that placer the one you stumbled on last fall." "We'll come another time," Abe said, crestfallen. Bruce turned to him: "No, don't go. I've just come from Ore City and I may be able to tell your friend something that he wants to know. Where is your placer ground, Sprudell?"
"A month of this, and there would be another killin'; I aches to choke the windpipe off that dude," the old man told himself, and ignored the peremptory commands. The crust that he prayed for came at last, but no sign of Bruce; then a gale blowing down the river swept it fairly clear of snow. "Git ready!" Griswold said one morning. "We'll start." And Sprudell jumped on his frosted feet for joy.
To everyone's surprise Abe got off unscathed. In fact Mr. Sprudell laughed good-naturedly. "Stung, Abe that's the word. And why?" He answered himself. "Because you were investing in something you did not understand." "It looked all right," Abe defended. "You could see the gold stickin' out all over the rock, but I was 'salted' so bad I never got enough to drink since.
The little old man, who boasted that he weighed only one hundred and thirty with his winter tallow on, skimmed the surface like a water spider, scarcely jarring loose a rock. Sprudell knew that he could never get across like that. Fear would make him heavy-footed if nothing else. "Hurry up!" the old man shouted impatiently. "We've no time to lose.
"I'd hardly pack them into a place like this if I didn't," Bruce answered curtly. "I suppose not," he hastened to admit, and added, patronizingly; "Who is this fellow Agassiz?" Bruce turned as sharply as if he had attacked a personal friend. The famous, many-sided scientist was his hero, occupying a pedestal that no other celebrity approached. Sprudell had touched him on a tender spot.
From the first he had a feeling which grew stronger, as the forenoon waned, that Sprudell was "riding herd on him," guarding him, warding off chance acquaintances. It amused him, when he was sure of it, for he thought that it was due to Sprudell's fear lest he betray him in his rôle of hero, though it seemed to Bruce that short as was their acquaintance Sprudell should know him better than that.
Of all things in the world that he should be "The Man from the Bitter Roots" dining at the Strathmore the guest of Winfield Harrah! Weren't people punished for murder in the West? Sprudell had intimated that he would hang for it. Helen's grey eyes were big with amazement and indignation while she watched him being seated.
Dudin' wouldn't be a bad business," Uncle Bill added judicially, "if it weren't for answerin' questions and listenin' to their second-hand jokes. Generally they're smart people when they're on their home range and sometimes they turns out good friends." "Like Sprudell." Helen suggested mischievously. "Sprudell!" The old man's eyes blazed and he fairly jumped at the sound of the name.
With an air of being late for many important engagements, T. Victor Sprudell bustled into the Hotel Strathmore in the Eastern city that had been Slim's home and inscribed his artistic signature upon the register; and as a consequence Peters, city editor of the Evening Dispatch, while glancing casually over the proofs that had just come from the composing room, some hours later, paused at the name of T. Victor Sprudell, Bartlesville, Indiana, among the list of hotel arrivals.
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