"
"Did we meet often?"
"No."
"Were we intimate?"
"Well, yes, for the time being."
"I give it up."
"You don't place me?"
"No."
Again the woodsman laughed and said:
"Do you remember about fifteen years ago a young fellow, tired, wet, and
hungry, tried to find shelter in a freight car?"
"Hello! you are not Henry Creedon?"
"Yes, I am, and this is the second time you've fed me. You appear to be
my good angel; I may prove your good angel."
"So you are Henry Creedon?"
"I am," and turning to Desmond, Creedon said:
"Your friend there one night made a fight for me, fed me and found
shelter for me. He was a tramp then; I was footing it out West here."
"Henry," said Brooks, "what have you been doing all these years?"
"Mine hunting."
"Mine hunting for fifteen years?"
"Yes."
"And have you found a mine yet?"
The woodsman laughed, and Brooks said:
"Desmond, we did indeed take desperate chances, and we've been making a
fool's chase, I reckon. Here is a man who has been mine hunting for
fifteen years and has not found one yet. Where do we come in?"
"I'll tell you," said Creedon; "it's luck when you find a mine. More are
found by chance than are discovered by experts, but I think I've found
one; I can't tell.
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