"Little out of my line," he suggested mildly, "I leave all that to the Swedes. Say, did you ever hear that one about the Swede and the Irishman--you don't happen to be Irish, do you?" "No," answered Denver and as he waited for the story he remembered what the Professor had told him. This long, gangly Yankee, with his drooping red mustache and his stories for every occasion, was nothing but a store-keeper and a cowman. He knew nothing about mining or the value of mines but like many another old-timer simply held down his claims and waited--and to cover up his ignorance of mining he told stories about Irishmen and Swedes. "No," said Denver, "and you're no Swede, or you'd drift in there and see what you've got." "A mule can work," observed Bunker oracularly, "but here's one I heard sprung on an Irishman. He was making a big talk about Swedes and Swede luck, and after he'd got through a feller made the statement that the Swedes were the greatest people in the world. "'In the wur-rold!' yells the Irishman, like he was out of his head, 'well, how do you figure thot out?' "'Well, I'll tell you,' says the feller, 'the Swedes invented the wheel-barrow--and then they learned you Irish to stand on your hind legs and run it!' Har, har, har; he had him going that time--the Mick couldn't think what else to do so he went to heaving bricks." "Yes--sure," nodded Denver, "that was one on the Irish. But say, have you got a clean title to this claim? Because if you have----" "You bet I have!" spoke up Bunker, now suddenly strictly business; but as he waited expectantly there was a shout from the trail and Professor Diffenderfer came rushing up. "Oh, I heard you!" he cried shaking a trembling fist at Bunker. "I heard vot you said about my claim! Und now, Mister Bunk, I'll have my say--no sir, you haf no goot title. You haf not done your yearly assessment vork on dis or any oder claims!" "Say, who called you in on this?" inquired Bunker Hill coldly. "You danged, bat-headed Dutchman, you keep butting in on my deals and I'll forget and bust you on the jaw!" His long, sharp chin was suddenly thrust out, one eye had a dangerous droop; but the Professor returned his gaze with an insolent stare and a triumphant toss of the head. "Dat's all right!" he said, "you say my golt mine is a stringer--I say your silver mine is nuttings. You haf no title, according to law, but only by the custom of the country." "Well, you poor, ignorant baboon," burst out Bunker in a fury, "what better title do you want? The claim is mine, everybody knows it and acknowledges it; and I've got your signature, sworn before a notary public, that the annual work was done!" "Just a form, just a form," returned the Professor with a shrug, "I do like everyone else. But dis claim dat I haf--and my tunnel on the hill--on dem the vork is done. And now, Mr. Russell, if you haf finished looking here, I will take you to see my mine."