So there it stood--a dingy shingle roof overgrown with moss--a
quaint little porch and two numerously paned windows on each side.
On top of the porch a sign-board--done by Slivers in the early days,
and looking like it--bore the legend 'Slivers, mining agent.' The
door did not shut--something was wrong with it, so it always stood
ajar in a hospitable sort of manner. Entering this, a stranger would
find himself in a dark low-roofed passage, with a door at the end
leading to the kitchen, another on the right leading to the bedroom,
and a third on the left leading to the office, where most of
Slivers' indoor life was spent. He used to stop here nearly all day
doing business, with the small table before him covered with scrip,
and the mantelpiece behind him covered with specimens of quartz, all
labelled with the name of the place whence they came. The inkstand
was dirty, the ink thick and the pens rusty; yet, in spite of all
these disadvantages, Slivers managed to do well and make money. He
used to recommend men to different mines round about, and whenever a
manager wanted men, or new hands wanted work, they took themselves
off to Slivers, and were sure to be satisfied there. Consequently,
his office was nearly always full; either of people on business or
casual acquaintances dropping in to have a drink--Slivers was
generous in the whisky line--or to pump the old man about some new
mine, a thing which no one ever managed to do.
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