“Three star brandy,” said Abe, decisively. “I used to come over of a night when he was bad and sit by him. Poor chap! he had a wife and two children in Putney. He’d rave, and call me Polly, by the hour. He was cleaned out, hadn’t a red cent; but the boys collected rough gold enough to see him through. He’s buried there in that shaft; that was his claim, so we just dropped him down it an’ filled it up. Put down his pick too, an’ a spade an’ a bucket, so’s he’d feel kinder perky and at home.” Miss Carrie seemed more interested now. “Do they often die like that?” she asked. “Well, brandy kills many; but there’s more get’s dropped--shot, you know.” “I don’t mean that. Do many men die alone and miserable down there, with no one to care for them?” and she pointed to the cluster of houses beneath them. “Is there anyone dying now? It is awful to think of.” “There’s none as I knows on likely to throw up their hand.” “I wish you wouldn’t use so much slang, Mr. Durton,” said Carrie, looking up at him reprovingly out of her violet eyes. It was strange what an air of proprietorship this young lady was gradually assuming toward her gigantic companion. “You know it isn’t polite. You should get a dictionary and learn the proper words.” “Ah, that’s it!” said Bones, apologetically. “It’s gettin’ your hand on the proper one. When you’ve not got a steam drill, you’ve got to put up with a pick.” “Yes, but it’s easy if you really try. You could say that a man was ’dying,’ or ’moribund,’ if you like.” “That’s it,” said the miner, enthusiastically. “’Moribund’! That’s a word. Why, you could lay over Boss Morgan in the matter of words. ’Moribund!’ There’s some sound about that.” Carrie laughed. “It’s not the sound you must think of, but whether it will express your meaning. Seriously, Mr. Durton, if anyone should be ill in the camp you must let me know. I can nurse, and I might be of use. You will, won’t you?” Abe readily acquiesced, and relapsed into silence as he pondered over the possibility of inoculating himself with some long and tedious disease. There was a mad dog reported from Buckhurst. Perhaps something might be done with that. “And now I must say good-morning,” said Carrie, as they came to the spot where a crooked pathway branched off from the track and wound up to Azalea Villa. “Thank you ever so much for escorting me.” In vain Abe pleaded for the additional hundred yards, and adduced the overwhelming weight of the diminutive basket as a cogent reason. The young lady was inexorable. She had taken him too far out of his way already. She was ashamed of herself; she wouldn’t hear of it.