“Can we pay them?”

“Doc says he dassent; so I s’pose they’ll quit.  He should have fired ’em a week ago.  Never let a man quit—­always beat him to it.  We could hold the rough-necks for another two weeks if it wasn’t for these fellows, but they’ll go back and start a stampede.”

“How many are there?”

“About a dozen.”

“I was afraid it was worse.  There can’t be much owing to them.”

“Oh, it’s bad enough!  They’ve been letting their wages ride, that’s why they got scared.  We owe them about four thousand dollars.”

“They must be paid,” said Eliza.  “It will give Mr. O’Neil another two weeks—­a month, perhaps.”

“Doc’s got his back up, and he’s told the cashier to make ’em wait.”

Eliza hesitated, and flushed a little.  “I suppose it’s none of my business,” she said, “but—­couldn’t you boys pay them out of your own salaries?”

Mr. Slater grinned—­an unprecedented proceeding which lent his face an altogether strange and unnatural expression.

“Salary!  We ain’t had any salary,” he said, cheerfully—­“not for months.”

“Dan has drawn his regularly.”

“Oh, sure!  But he ain’t one of us.  He’s an outsider.”

“I see!” Eliza’s eyes were bright with a wistful admiration.  “That’s very nice of you men.  You have a family, haven’t you, Uncle Tom?”

“I have!  Seven head, and they eat like a herd of stock.  It looks like a lean winter for ’em if Murray don’t make a sale—­but he will.  That isn’t what I came to see you about; I’ve got my asking clothes on, and I want a favor.”

“You shall have it, of course.”

“I want a certificate.”

“Of what?”

“Ill health.  Nobody believes I had the smallpox.”

“You didn’t.”

“Wh-what?” Tom’s eyes opened wide.  He stared at the girl in hurt surprise.

“It was nothing but pimples, Tom.”

“Pimples!” He spat the word out indignantly, and his round cheeks grew purple.  “I—­I s’pose pimples gave me cramps and chills and backache and palpitation and swellings!  Hunh!  I had a narrow escape—­narrow’s the word.  It was narrower than a knife-edge!  Anything I get out of life from now on is ‘velvet,’ for I was knocking at death’s door.  The grave yawned, but I jumped it.  It’s the first sick spell I ever had, and I won’t be cheated out of it.  Understand?”

“What do you want me to do?” smiled the girl.

“You’re a writer:  write me an affidavit—­”

“I can’t do that.”

“Then put it in your paper.  Put it on the front page, where folks can see it.”

“I’ve quit The Review.  I’m doing magazine stories.”

“Well, that’ll do.  I’m not particular where it’s printed so long as—­”

Eliza shook her head.  “You weren’t really sick, Uncle Tom.”

At this Mr. Slater rose to his feet in high dudgeon.

“Don’t call me ‘Uncle,’” he exclaimed.  “You’re in with the others.”