"
When next day he crossed the foot-bridge over the Middle Yuba, where it
tears along in its deep, wild canon below Moore's Flat, he was less
interested in Spanish or in the grandeur of the scenery than he was in
reaching Robert Palmer's. He had not hired a horse at Moore's Flat, as
the livery man might be curious; so he had sauntered along through the
village, greeting old friends and chatting with them now and then until
considerable time had been consumed, but he knew that the old man would
put him up for the night.
It was late in the afternoon before he reached the top of Fillmore Hill.
Old man Palmer, much broken in health, as Francis remarked with a degree
of inward exultation immediately reproved by his conscience, greeted him
affectionately.
"Well, Henry, I almost thought you had forgotten me. But, of course, I
knew better."
"You must remember, Mr. Palmer, that it is quite a ways up here from the
city. The narrow gauge from Colfax is little better than a stage coach.
It means a trip of fifty miles into the mountains to get here."
"Well, I'm mighty glad you've come. As soon as you've rested a bit, I
want to talk business.
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