“Just got in,” answered Mr. Baxter, shaking hands, as did Davy. “We came by mule and wagon with Billy Cody and two or three others.” “How?” “Up the Smoky.” “Joined the gold rush, did you?” “Yes, sir. But I’ve about decided I’d rather plant potatoes.” “How about you, Dave?” queried Mr. Majors. “I’d like to eat one,” asserted Davy ruefully. “You’ve got the right idea, I guess,” approved Mr. Majors. “But I understand Horace Greeley has told the people here they ought to plant potatoes, and they laughed at him. Potatoes are a better crop than gold, in my opinion; but this country certainly doesn’t look very promising for them. How people are going to live I don’t know. It will be good for the freighting business, though. We’ll be hauling stuff in here with every team we can muster. Did you know we’ve taken over the stage line, too?” “No, sir.” “Well, we have. It’s run by Russell, Majors & Waddell now. Call in on me before I leave, and I’ll give you a pass to Leavenworth in case you want to go back.” “All right. Thank you, Mr. Majors.” “If I were you, my lad, I wouldn’t stay around here long,” continued Mr. Majors to Davy. “This place is going to be a good place, and I haven’t any doubt that lots of gold will come out of these mountains as soon as the people are experienced in finding it. But looking for gold haphazard is a poor job for a boy. I think you’ll do much better on the plains. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, you know; and there’s a big work to be done in helping these people live. If the freight outfits aren’t kept moving the diggings will starve. If you’ll come in to Leavenworth we’ll put you to work with the bull trains.” “You’d better do it, Davy,” advised Mr. Baxter. And Davy soberly nodded. “I guess I will, then.” “I’m up at our Nebraska City office most of the time now,” said Mr. Majors. “But you’ll find Mr. Russell at Leavenworth and I’ll tell him to fix you out.” And Mr. Majors shouldered his way into the hotel. “Whar’s the post-office, stranger?” asked a voice; and turning they faced an emigrant evidently newly arrived. “I don’t know. We’re lost around here, ourselves,” explained Mr. Baxter. “Pardon. I tella the way,” spoke somebody else. He was a tall, swarthy-visaged man, with heavy black moustache and black bushy eyebrows, a large meerschaum pipe in his mouth. However, he was neatly dressed, even to natty shoes. He looked like a foreigner, and his accent sounded foreign. He continued rapidly: “That beeg house w’ere you see-a the line of men.” “Thank ’ee,” acknowledged the emigrant, after a hearty stare. And he strode off. “And you, signors? Canna I direct you zomeplace?” inquired the foreign man, with a bow. “We’re just looking around, is all,” informed Mr. Baxter. “Then later. Perhappa for the hair or the whiskers; perhappa for the wash. Permitta me.” And with another bow he handed to Mr. Baxter and to Davy his card.