the shack, and remained quietly in the middle of the floor, as though taking a survey of the place.
"Humph! It ain't much changed from when I was here last," a voice said, and Tom peered out from beneath a cautiously-raised blanket. The identity of the unexpected visitor startled him.
"Old Jake Blasdell!" murmured Tom, in a whisper. "The former caretaker! What in the world does he want here? I thought he had cleared out of these diggings."
Blasdell, for it was he, stood in the middle of the room of the shack where Mendez cooked, ate and slept—did everything, in fact, save conduct his small store, which was an addition.
"It's better than when I had it," Blasdell murmured, for, as I have said, when Mendez succeeded the former caretaker he had moved the shack from the place where Blasdell had built it, and had considerably improved it. "Much better," went on the old man. "Them Mexicans ain't so lazy as I've heard. Lucky for me I knowed of that window that didn't close very tight or I mightn't have gotten in. And lucky I happened to see Mendez as I did, and learned that he would be away all day. Now I'm in here where can I hide 'em. I don't dare carry 'em around with me much longer. Folks is beginning to suspect. And I'll take away that piece I left here, too."
