In the midst of this task Joe glanced
at the firm-name, gilt-lettered on the face of it, and read: "Bronson
& Tate." Why, that was his father and his father's partner. That was their
safe, their money! 'Frisco Kid, nailing the last cleat on the floor of
the cabin, looked up and followed his fascinated gaze.
"That 's rough, is n't it," he whispered. "Your father?"
Joe nodded. He could see it all now. They had run into San Andreas,
where his father worked the big quarries, and most probably the safe
contained the wages of the thousand men or more whom he employed.
"Don't say anything," he cautioned.
'Frisco Kid agreed knowingly. "French Pete can't read, anyway," he
muttered, "and the chances are that Red Nelson won't know what _your_
name is. But, just the same, it 's pretty rough. They 'll break it open
and divide up as soon as they can, so I don't see what you 're going to
do about it."
"Wait and see."
Joe had made up his mind that he would do his best to stand by his
father's property. At the worst, it could only be lost; and that would
surely be the case were he not along, while, being along, he at least
had a fighting chance to save it, or to be in position to recover it.
Responsibilities were showering upon him thick and fast. But a few days
back he had had but himself to consider; then, in some subtle way, he
had felt a certain accountability for 'Frisco Kid's future welfare; and
after that, and still more subtly, he had become aware of duties which
he owed to his position, to his sister, to his chums and friends; and
now, by a most unexpected chain of circumstances, came the pressing need
of service for his father's sake.
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