Exhibits the Managing Director and the Secretary of Wheal Dooem in Confidential Circumstances, and Introduces the Subject of “Locals.”

About this time that energetic promoter of mining operations, Mr George Augustus Clearemout, found it necessary to revisit Cornwall.

He was seated in an easy-chair in a snug little back-office, or board-room, in one of the airiest little streets of the City of London, when this necessity became apparent to him. Mr Clearemout did not appear to have much to do at that particular time, for he contented himself with tapping the arm of his easy-chair with the knuckles of his right hand, while he twirled his gold watch-key with his left, and smiled occasionally.

To judge from appearances it seemed that things in general were prospering with George Augustus. Everything about him was new, and, we might almost say, gorgeous. His coat and vest and pantaloons had a look and a cut about them that told of an extremely fashionable tailor, and a correspondingly fashionable price. His rings, of which he wore several, were massive, one of them being a diamond ring of considerable value. His boots were faultlessly made, quite new, and polished so highly that it dazzled one to look at them, while his linen, of which he displayed a large quantity on the breast, was as white as snow—not London snow, of course! Altogether Mr G.A. Clearemout was a most imposing personage.

“Come in,” he said, in a voice that sounded like the deep soft whisper of a trombone.

The individual who had occasioned the command by tapping at the door, opened it just enough to admit his head, which he thrust into the room. It was a shaggy red head belonging to a lad of apparently eighteen; its chief characteristics being a prolonged nose and a retracted chin, with a gash for a mouth, and two blue holes for eyes.

“Please, sir, Mr Muddle,” said the youth.

“Admit Mr Muddle.”

The head disappeared, and immediately after a gentleman sauntered into the room, and flung himself lazily into the empty armchair which stood at the fireplace vis-à-vis to the one in which Mr Clearemout sat, explaining that he would not have been so ceremonious had he not fancied that his friend was engaged with some one on business.

“How are you, Jack?” said George Augustus.

“Pretty bobbish,” replied Jack. (He was the same Jack whom we have already introduced as being Mr Clearemout’s friend and kindred spirit.)

“Any news?” inquired Mr Clearemout.

“No, nothing moving,” said Jack languidly.

“H’m, I see it is time to stir now, Jack, for the wheel of fortune is apt to get stiff and creaky if we don’t grease her now and then and give her a jog. Here is a little pot of grease which I have been concocting and intend to lay on immediately.”

He took a slip of paper from a large pocket-book which lay at his elbow on the new green cloth-covered table, and handed it to his friend, who slowly opened and read it in a slovenly way, mumbling the most of it as he went on:—

“‘Wheal Dooem, in St. Just, Cornwall—mumble—m—m—in 10,000 shares. An old mine, m—m—every reason to believe—m—m—splendid lodes visible from—m—m. Depth of Adit fifty fathoms—m—depth below Adit ninety fathoms. Pumps, whims, engines, etcetera, in good working order—m—little expense—Landowners, Messrs—m—Manager at the Mine, Captain Trembleforem—m—thirteen men, four females, and two boys—m—water—wheels—stamps—m—Managing Director, George Augustus Clearemout, Esquire, 99 New Gull Street, London—m—Secretary, John Muddle, Esquire—ahem—’”

“But, I say, it won’t do to publish anything of this sort just yet, you know,” said Secretary Jack in a remonstrative tone, “for there’s nothing doing at all, I believe.”

“I beg your pardon,” replied the managing director, “there is a good deal doing. I have written to St. Just appointing the local manager, and it is probable that things are really under way by this time; besides, I shall set out for Cornwall to-morrow to superintend matters, leaving my able secretary in charge here in the meantime, and when he hears from me this paper may be completed and advertised.”

“I say, it looks awful real-like, don’t it?” said Jack, with a grin. “Only fancy if it should turn out to be a good mine after all—what a lark that would be! and it might, you know, for it was a real one once, wasn’t it? And if you set a few fellows to sink the what-d’ye-call-’ems and drive the thingumbobs, it is possible they may come upon tin and copper, or something of that sort—wouldn’t it be jolly?”

“Of course it would, and that is the very thing that gives zest to it. It’s a speculation, not a swindle by any means, and admirably suits our easy consciences. But, I say, Jack, you must break yourself off talking slang. It will never do to have the secretary of the Great Wheal Dooem Mining Company talk like a street boy. Besides, I hate slang even in a blackguard—not to mention a black-leg—so you must give it up, Jack, you really must, else you’ll ruin the concern at the very beginning.”

Secretary Jack started into animation at this.

“Why, George,” he said, drawing himself up, “I can throw it off when I please. Look here—suppose yourself an inquiring speculator—ahem! I assure you, sir, that the prospects of this mine are most brilliant, and the discoveries that have been made in it since we commenced operations are incredible—absolutely incredible, sir. Some of the lodes (that’s the word, isn’t it?) are immensely rich, and upwards of a hundred feet thick, while the part that runs under the sea, or is to run under the sea, at a depth of three thousand fathoms, is probably as rich in copper ore as the celebrated Botallack, whose majestic headland, bristling with machinery, overhangs the raging billows of the wide Atlantic, etcetera, etcetera. O George, it’s a great lark entirely!”

“You’ll have to learn your lesson a little better, else you’ll make a great mess of it,” said Clearemout.

“A muddle of it—according to my name and destiny, George,” said the secretary; “a muddle of it, and a fortune by it.”

Here the secretary threw himself back in the easy-chair, and grinned at the opposite wall, where his eye fell on a large picture, which changed the grin into a stare of surprise.

“What have we here, George,” he said, rising, and fitting a gold glass in his eye—“not a portrait of Wheal Dooem, is it?”

“You have guessed right,” replied the other. “I made a few sketches on the spot, and got a celebrated artist to put them together, which he has done, you see, with considerable effect. Here, in the foreground, you observe,” continued the managing director, taking up a new white pointer, “stands Wheal Dooem, on a prominent crag overlooking the Atlantic, with Gurnard’s Head just beyond. Farther over, we have the celebrated Levant Mine, and the famous Botallack, and the great Wheal Owles, and a crowd of other more or les............