Wayne, more and more inexplicable to Joe, insisted that they should go to a miner’s boarding house, though there was a fair commercial hotel in the place. Wayne passed well enough for an American labourer now--big, vigorous, bearded, and shabby as to clothes. It was a question whether Joe, who had been faithful to his razor, did not inspire greater confidence in the beholder. A stranger in such a community is a marked man and his motives are sharply questioned; but Joe was on his own soil, and a power, it seemed, among the men of the pit, and he gave satisfactory assurances as to Wayne’s intentions. Pittsburg has few lines of contact with the anthracite country--a fact of which Wayne had been cognizant in choosing the upper Susquehanna for his exile, and his own name, if he had not dropped it, would have meant little here. Joe had believed that when confronted by a day’s real work Wayne’s determination would weaken. Wayne was a man of whims, to be sure, but Joe had no illusions as to the nobility of labour, and having himself enjoyed the fleshpots of the Craighill kitchen he was confident that the food of the miner’s boarding house would give Wayne pause, if nothing else did. But Wayne kept doggedly to his resolution. He had received his commission to labour from Jean’s hands, and he had come into her country as into holy land. He was not a miner and under the law could not go down into the earth as he had expected, to wrest coal from its great caverns; but Joe found work for him as a teamster at the Florence colliery, hauling timbers and other supplies, and he himself instructed Wayne in his duties. The humour of the thing tickled Joe; Wayne Craighill with a pipe in his mouth, driving a mule team and running when the whistle blew, was certainly funny. And when the day’s work was done Wayne smoked and talked with the motley crowd at the boarding house and made them like him--as was his way. He caught a glimpse now and then, through the office window, of Craig, the chief engineer--a classmate of his at the “Tech,” bending over blue-prints of the workings; but they never met face to face. Joe had found work for himself in the mines, and came up at night as black as the blackest, but with his cheer unabated. He watched Wayne carefully, believing that at any time the old passion for drink would reassert itself; and he wrote, with much labour, half-humorous post-card bulletins of Wayne’s doings to Walsh and Wingfield. “Thumping mules and eating boiled pork and greens with the Dagoes. Hasn’t drank a drop,” read one of these reports; and Walsh, growling and swearing in his glass box, gave currency to a report that Wayne was on a ranch in Colorado; but Paddock and Wingfield knew the truth and marvelled, and Paddock insisted that they must let the man have his way.