The roar of the river came up to him more clearly. As though some
power had released the magic of the stream, the water now moved. Rushing
foam and white water tumbled over the black and shining rocks; deep
pools eddied, dark and green, shot with swirls.
As it became increasingly evident that the road could lead nowhere but
through this village, Bob's spirits rose. The place was well built. Bob
caught the shimmer of ample glass in the windows, the colour of paint on
the boards, and even the ordered rectangles of brick chimneys! Evidently
these things must have been freighted in over the devious steep grade he
was at that moment descending. Bob well knew that, even nearer the
source of supplies, such mining camps as this appeared to be were most
often but a collection of rude, unpainted shanties, huddled together for
a temporary need. The orderly, well-kept, decent appearance of this
hamlet, more like a shaded New England village than a Western camp,
argued old establishment, prosperity, and self-respect. The inhabitants
could be no desperate fly-by-nights, such as Saleratus Bill would most
likely have sought as companions.
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