"I 'clar ter goodness!" groaned Joe, reaching us at last, and hobbling on beside us, "I didn' 'low fur t' wuck ter-day; my rheumatiz is tuck dat bad!" "Don't work, then, Joe; the mine is as wet as a sponge. You'll be the worse to-morrow for going into it," remonstrated father, kindly. "No; I reckons I's wuck ef yo' does; hit ain' out o' place, noway, fur me ter crope inter a hole like dat; but w'at fur yo' keep w'alin' at wuck in de mine? 'Pears like a gen'leman might fin' more fittin' kine o' wuck dan dat." "The kind of work neither makes nor unmakes one, Joe," returned father, good-humoredly; "but I'm not going to do this sort of work much longer. I'm calculating on opening up the ranch in fine shape, with your help, when I get the title to it." "W'en yo' 'low fur ter git dat titull?" "In about three months. You'll have to come and live with us then, Joe, so as to be on hand to help us." "Yes," the old man assented, with unexpected readiness, "I 'spect I shall. I'se mighty good farmer, yo' knows, Mas'r Ralph. Hit goin' take nigh a week ter tell all dat I knows erbout raisin' ob watermillions an' goobers. Yo' 'low dat goobers grow in dish yer kentry, Mas'r Ralph?" "Yes, indeed. Why not?" father returned, cheerily, evidently glad of old Joe's implied willingness to take up his abode with us. We presently entered the shaft-house. Rutledge, the mine superintendent, was standing by the shaft, and the hoisting-cage, with its first load of ore from the dump below, was moving slowly upward. "You're late," was his greeting. "A trifle late," father returned, pleasantly, adding, "you can dock my day's wages for it if you like." "I know that without you telling me, but I shouldn't like," Rutledge said, crossly. We all knew him slightly, and I had thought him a pleasant young gentleman, but he was looking sullen to-day, almost angry, it seemed to me. We stood there waiting, and the cage had reached the surface and automatically dumped its load before Rutledge spoke again. "I thought you weren't coming, in spite of your promise," he then said, looking toward father. "No one could have blamed you if you had shown the white feather--" "Say, yo' heah me!" broke in old Joe, suddenly and savagely, his voice quivering with indignation. "Ole Cunnel Gordon's son ain' one o' de kine w'at done breaks promises, ner yit w'at's a-showin' w'ite fedders. Ef yo's lookin' fer dat kine of a man, git a lookin'-glass an' study de face dat yo' sees in hit, den maybe yo' fine 'im!" Rutledge smiled, although he still scowled disapproval. "That's all right, Joe; there are no cowards around the Gray Eagle shaft-house, but I couldn't blame any one for keeping out of the mine to-day--not but what it's safe enough, as far as I can see--I've just been down."