In the office, Mr. Dill was noticeably abstracted. His smiling suavity, his gracious manner, had given place to taciturnity and Ore City's choicest _bon mots_, its time-tested pleasantries, fell upon inattentive ears. As a matter of fact, his bones ached like a tooth from three long, hard days in the mail-carrier's sledges, and also he recognized certain symptoms which told him that he was in for an attack of dyspepsia due to his enforced diet en route, of soda-biscuit, ham, and bacon. But these were minor troubles as compared to the loss of the fee which in his mind he had already spent. The most he could hope for, he supposed, was compensation for his time and his expenses. He sat in a grumpy silence until Bruce came out of the dining-room, then he stated his intention of going to bed and asked for a lamp. As he said good-night curtly he noticed Uncle Bill eyeing him hard, as he had observed him doing before, but this time there was distinct hostility in the look. "What's the matter with that old rooster?" he asked himself crossly as he clumped upstairs to bed. "I know that young duck now," said Uncle Bill in an undertone, as Bruce sat down beside him. "He's a mining and civil engineer--a good one, too--but crooked as they come. He's a beat." "He's an engineer?" Bruce asked in quick interest. "He's anything that suits, when it comes to pulling off a mining deal. He'd 'salt' his own mother, he'd sell out his grandmother, but in his profession there's none better if he'd stay straight. I knowed him down in Southern Oregon--he was run out." "Have you heard yet from Sprudell?" "Yes," Uncle Bill answered grimly. "As you might say, indirectly. I want you should take a look at this." He felt for his leather wallet and handed Bruce the clipping. "Don't skip any," he said acidly. "It's worth a careful peruse." There was a little likelihood of that after Bruce had read the headlines. "I hopes you takes special note of tears of gratitude rainin' down my withered cheeks," said Uncle Bill savagely, "I relishes bein' published over the world as a sobbin' infant." Bruce folded the clipping mechanically many times before he handed it back. There was more in it to him than the withholding of credit which belonged to an obscure old man, or the self-aggrandizement of a pompous braggart. To Bruce it was indicative of a man with a moral screw loose, it denoted a laxity of principle. With his own direct standards of conduct it was equivalent to dishonesty. "You didn't git no answer to your letter, I notice," Griswold commented, following Bruce's thoughts. "No." They smoked in silence for a time, the target of interested eyes, Bruce unconscious that the stories of his feats of strength and his daring as a boatman had somehow crossed the almost impassable spurs of mountain between Ore City and Meadows to make a celebrity of him, not only in Ore City but as far as the evil reputation of the river went.