Beeson resumed.
'You bet your life I am!'
Mr. Beeson's elegance was not too refined; it had
made reasonable concessions to local taste. He
paused a moment, letting his eyes drop from the
muffled head of his guest, down along the row of
mouldy buttons confining the blanket overcoat, to
the greenish cowhide boots powdered with snow,
which had begun to melt and run along the floor in
little rills. He took an inventory of his guest, and ap-
peared satisfied. Who would not have been? Then he
continued:
'The cheer I can offer you is, unfortunately, in
keeping with my surroundings; but I shall esteem
myself highly favoured if it is your pleasure to
partake of it, rather than seek better at Bentley's
Flat.'
With a singular refinement of hospitable humil-
ity Mr. Beeson spoke as if a sojourn in his warm
cabin on such a night, as compared with walking four-
teen miles up to the throat in snow with a cutting
crust, would be an intolerable hardship. By way of
reply, his guest unbuttoned the blanket overcoat.
The host laid fresh fuel on the fire, swept the hearth
with the tail of a wolf, and added:
'But I think you'd better skedaddle.'
The old man took a seat by the fire, spreading his
broad soles to the heat without removing his hat. In
the mines the hat is seldom removed except when
the boots are. Without further remark Mr. Beeson
also seated himself in a chair which had been a bar-
rel, and which, retaining much of its original char-
acter, seemed to have been designed with a view
to preserving his dust if it should please him to
crumble.
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