“I work two days on railroad. Got busted track up there. Pay me two-twenty-five a day. Then no more job.” “Have you tried the mines?” “What? Me? They got me all right! I go up to San José. Pit-boss say, ‘Get the hell out of here, you old groucher! You don’t get no more jobs in this district!’” Hal looked Mike over, and saw that his dirty old face was drawn and white, belying the feeble cheerfulness of his words. “We’re going to have something to eat,” he said. “Won’t you come with us?” “Sure thing!” said Mike, with alacrity. “I go easy on grub now.” Hal introduced “Mr. Edward Warner,” who said “How do you do?” He accepted gingerly the calloused paw which the old Slovak held out to him, but he could not keep the look of irritation from his face. His patience was utterly exhausted. He had hoped to find a decent restaurant and have some real food; but now, of course, he could not enjoy anything, with this old gobbler in front of him. They entered an all-night lunch-room, where Hal and Mike ordered cheese-sandwiches and milk, and Edward sat and wondered at his brother’s ability to eat such food. Meantime the two cronies told each other their stories, and Old Mike slapped his knee and cried out with delight over Hal’s exploits. “Oh, you buddy!” he exclaimed; then, to Edward, “Ain’t he a daisy, hey?” And he gave Edward a thump on the shoulder. “By Judas, they don’t beat my buddy!” Mike Sikoria had last been seen by Hal from the window of the North Valley jail, when he had been distributing the copies of Hal’s signature, and Bud Adams had taken him in charge. The mine-guard had marched him into a shed in back of the power-house, where he had found Kauser and Kalovac, two other fellows who had been arrested while helping in the distribution.