Harry stood before him, in all the splendor that a miner can know.

He had bought a new suit, brilliant blue, almost electric in its
flashiness, nor had he been careful as to style. The cut of the
trousers was somewhat along the lines of fifteen years before, with
their peg tops and heavy cuffs. Beneath the vest, a glowing,
watermelon-pink shirt glared forth from the protection of a purple tie.
A wonderful creation was on his head, dented in four places, each
separated with almost mathematical precision. Below the cuffs of the
trousers were bright, tan, bump-toed shoes. Harry was a complete
picture of sartorial elegance, according to his own dreams. What was
more, to complete it all, upon the third finger of his right hand was a
diamond, bulbous and yellow and throwing off a dull radiance like the
glow of a burnt-out arclight; full of flaws, it is true, off color to a
great degree, but a diamond nevertheless. And Harry evidently realized
it.

"Ain't I the cuckoo?" he boomed, as Fairchild stared at him. "Ain't I?
I 'ad to 'ave a outfit, and--

"It might as well be now!" he paraphrased, to the tune of the
age-whitened sextette from "Floradora." "And look at the sparkler!
Look at it!"

Fairchild could do very little else but look. He knew the value, even
in spite of flaws and bad coloring. And he knew something else, that
Harry had confessed to having little more than five hundred dollars.

"But--but how did you do it?" came gaspingly. "I thought--"

"Installments!" the Cornishman burst out. "Ten per cent. down and the
rest when they catch me. Installments!" He jabbed forth a heavy
finger and punched Fairchild in the ribs. "Where's Mother 'Oward?
Won't I knock 'er eyes out?"

Fairchild laughed--he couldn't help it--in spite of the fact that five
hundred dollars might have gone a long way toward unwatering that
shaft. Harry was Harry--he had done enough in crossing the seas to
help him. And already, in the eyes of Fairchild, Harry was swiftly
approaching that place where he could do no wrong.

"You 're wonderful, Harry," came at last. The Cornishman puffed with
pride.

"I'm a cuckoo!" he admitted. "Where's Mother 'Oward? Where's Mother
'Oward? Won't I knock 'er eyes out, now?"

And he boomed forward toward the dining room, to find there men he had
known in other days, to shake hands with them and to bang them on the
back, to sight Blindeye Bozeman and Taylor Bill sitting hunched over
the