Four weeks passed before Kalman saw him again.  Those four weeks he spent in toil from early dawn till late at night at the oats and the potatoes, working to the limit of their endurance Mackenzie and the small force of Galicians he could secure, for the mine and the railroad offered greater attractions.  At length the level black fields lay waiting the wooing of the sun and rain and genial air.  Then Kalman rode down for a day at Wakota, for heart and body were exhausted of their vital forces.  He wanted rest, but he wanted more the touch of a friend’s hand.

At Wakota, the first sight that caught his eye was French’s horse tethered on the grassy sward before Brown’s house, and as he rode up, from within there came to his ear the sound of unusual and hilarious revelry.

“Hello there!” yelled Kalman, still sitting his horse.  “What’s happened to you all?”

The cry brought them all out,—­Brown and his wife, French and Irma, with Paulina in the background.  They crowded around him with vociferous welcome, Brown leading in a series of wild cheers.  After the cheering was done, Brown rushed for him.

“Congratulations, old boy!” he cried, shaking him by the hand.  “It’s all right; we’ve won, after all!  Hurrah!  Hurrah!  Hurrah!” Brown had clearly gone mad.

Then Irma came running toward him.

“Yes, it’s all true, Kalman dear,” she cried, pulling down his head to kiss him, her voice breaking in a sob and her eyes radiant with smiles and tears.

“Don’t be alarmed, old man,” said French, taking him by the hand when Irma had surrendered her place.  “They are all quite sane.  We’ve got it, right enough.  We’ve won out.”

Kalman sat still on his horse, looking from one to the other in utter bewilderment.  Brown was still yelling at intervals, and wildly waving his hat.  At length Kalman turned to Mrs. Brown.

“You seem to be sane, anyway,” he said; “perhaps you will tell me what they all mean?”

“It means, Kalman,” said the little woman, offering him both hands, “we are so glad that we don’t know what to do.  We have got back our mine.”

“The mine!” gasped Kalman faintly.  “Impossible!  Why, Brown there—­”

“Yes!  Brown here,” yelled that individual; “I know Brown.  He’s a corker!  But he’s sometimes wrong, and this is one of the times.  A mine, and a company!  And there’s the man that did it!  Jack French, to whom I take off my hat!  He has just got home, and we have just heard his tale, and—­school’s out and the band’s going to play and the game begin.  And get down from your broncho, you graven image!” Here Brown pulled Kalman headlong from his horse.  “And Jack will perform.  I have not been mad like this for a thousand years.  I have been in Hades for the last month, and now I’m out!  I know I am quite mad, but it’s fine while it lasts.  Now, Jack, the curtain’s up.  Let the play proceed.”

The story was simple enough.  Immediately after the discovery of the mine French had arranged with Mr. Robert Menzies that he should make application with the Department of the Interior at Ottawa for the necessary mining rights.  The application had been made, but the Department had failed to notify the local agent.