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Updated: June 29, 2025
"I drew the rough sketch for that and the artist carried out my ideas." Sprudell wished to convey the impression that along with his many other gifts he possessed artistic talent, had he only chosen to develop it. Helen read at random: Numerous prospect holes, cuts and trenches fully corroborate the value of the ground.
I got your union suit out'n the top of a pine tree. You've no more pants than a rabbit, feller. Everything went when the guy-ropes busted I warned you to sleep in your clothes." "But what'll I do?" Sprudell quavered. "Nothin'." His tone was as dry as punk. "You kin jest as well die in them pink pajammers as anything else." "Huh?" excitedly. The mound began to heave. "I say we're in for it.
I feel like a murderer settin' here." Sprudell watched him fearfully lest the irresolution he read in his face change to resolve, and urged: "There's nothing we can do but wait." Days after the most sanguine would have abandoned hope, Uncle Bill hung on. Sprudell paced the cabin like a captive panther, and his broad hints became demands.
They'd it was then the idea had shot into his mind like an inspiration they'd harness Big Squaw creek if they had it back in Iowa, or Nebraska, or Kansas, and make it work! They'd build a plant and develop power! The method which had at once suggested itself to Sprudell was slow in coming to Bruce because he was unfamiliar with electricity.
She saw the widening of his eyes when he recognized Sprudell, the quick hardening of his features and the look that followed, which, if not exactly triumph, was certainly satisfaction. Involuntarily she glanced at Sprudell and the expression on his face held her eyes. It fascinated her. For the moment she forgot Bruce Burt in studying him.
"He's anything that suits, when it comes to pulling off a mining deal. He'd 'salt' his own mother, he'd sell out his grandmother, but in his profession there's none better if he'd stay straight. I knowed him down in Southern Oregon he was run out." "Have you heard yet from Sprudell?" "Yes," Uncle Bill answered grimly. "As you might say, indirectly. I want you should take a look at this."
Step easy er you're goin' to start the whole darn works. Onct it gits to movin', half that bank'll go." Sprudell was nearly a third of the way across when the shale began to move, slowly at first, with a gentle rattle, then faster. He gave a shout of terror and floundered, panic-stricken, where he stood. The old man danced in frenzy: "Job in your heels and run like hell!"
I don't understand this placer-mining either, when it comes to that." Adolph Gotts, who had been a butcher, specializing in sausage, before he became a city contractor, was about to say the same thing, when Sprudell interrupted triumphantly: "Ah, but you will before I'm done." It was the moment for which he had waited. "Follow me, gentlemen."
But you was so afraid of havin' six bits' worth left over that you wouldn't listen to what I said. I don't like you anyhow. You're the kind of galoot that ought never to git out of sight of a railroad. Now, blast you you starve!" Incredible as the sensation was, Sprudell felt small.
Bruce said furiously. "The days of gun-plays have gone by," Sprudell reminded him. "And you haven't got the price to fight me in the courts. You'd better lay down before you start and save yourself the worry. What can you do? You have no money, no influence, no brains to speak of," he sneered insultingly, "or you wouldn't be down there doing what you are.
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