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A Buckeye Hollow Inheritance
The four men on the "Zip Coon" Ledge had not got fairly settled to
their morning's work. There was the usual lingering hesitation
which is apt to attend the taking-up of any regular or monotonous
performance, shown in this instance in the prolonged scrutiny of a
pick's point, the solemn selection of a shovel, or the "hefting" or
weighing of a tapping-iron or drill. One member, becoming
interested in a funny paragraph he found in the scrap of newspaper
wrapped around his noonday cheese, shamelessly sat down to finish
it, regardless of the prospecting pan thrown at him by another.
They had taken up their daily routine of mining life like schoolboys
at their tasks.
"Hello!" said Ned Wyngate, joyously recognizing a possible further
interruption. "Blamed if the Express rider ain't comin' here!"
He was shading his eyes with his hand as he gazed over the broad
sun-baked expanse of broken "flat" between them and the highroad.
They all looked up, and saw the figure of a mounted man, with a
courier's bag thrown over his shoulder, galloping towards them. It
was really an event, as their letters were usually left at the
grocery at the crossroads.
"I knew something
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