e too. All I know about it is
that I was coming down from the Silver Queen when I saw this fellow go
into the tunnel of the Blue Poppy. He was all dressed up, else I don't
guess I would have paid much attention to him. But as it was, I kind
of stopped to look, and seen it was Harry Harkins, who used to work the
mine with this"--he pointed to Fairchild--"this fellow's father. About
a minute later, I heard a yell, like somebody was in trouble, then a
big splash. Naturally I ran in the tunnel and struck a match. About
twenty feet down, I could see the water was all riled up, and a new hat
was floating around on top of it. I yelled a couple of times and
struck a lot of matches--but he did n't come to the surface. That's
all I know. You can do as you please about your diamond. I 'm just
giving you the information."

He turned sharply and went on then, while Sam the jeweler, the rest of
the loiterers clustered around him, looked appealingly toward Fairchild.

"What 'll we do?" he wailed.

Fairchild turned. "I don't know about you--but I 'm going to the mine."

"It won't do any good--bodies don't float. It may never float--if it
gets caught down in the timbers somewheres."

"Have to organize a bucket brigade." It was a suggestion from one of
the crowd.

"Why not borry the Argonaut pump? They ain't using it."

"Go get it! Go get it!" This time it was the wail of the little
jeweler. "Tell 'em Sam Herbenfelder sent you. They 'll let you have
it."

"Can't carry the thing on my shoulder."

"I 'll get the Sampler's truck"--a new volunteer had spoken--"there
won't be any kick about it."

Another suggestion, still another. Soon men began to radiate, each on
a mission. The word passed down the street. More loiterers--a silver
miner spends a great part of his leisure time in simply watching the
crowd go by--hurried to join the excited throng. Groups, en route to
the picture show, decided otherwise and stopped to learn of the
excitement. The crowd thickened. Suddenly Fairchild looked up sharply
at the sound of a feminine voice.

"What is the matter?"

"Harry Harkins got drowned." All too willingly the news was dispersed.
Fairchild's eyes were searching now in the half-light from the faint
street bulbs. Then they centered. It was Anita Richmond, standing at
the edge of the crowd, questioning a miner, while beside her was a
thin, youthful counterpart of a hard-faced father, Maurice Rodaine.
Just a