Archie rode uphill through the town, towards the elegant, yet out-of-place Victorian house on the hill. When those in the street and on the porches gawked at his unusual appearance he took pleasure in tipping his pith helmet to them. He passed the Morning Star Saloon on his right, and tucked in behind it, found the mine. Convenient for the miners, thought Archie. And if he knew the breed, he doubted they would have any pay left over after drinking. The mine entrance was sunk into an unusual mound, perhaps thirty-five feet tall. Men were using mules to haul a heavy ore cart from the timber-framed opening in the hill. Archie decided that his first step would be to survey the composition of the mound. If it was stable enough the engine could be installed on top, otherwise, the earth would have to be removed and a platform constructed. What a magnificent sight it would be if his engine was the tallest thing in town! 300 yards up the hill, he hitched his horse to the wrought iron fence that surrounded Jean DuMont’s house. Wrought iron? Ye gods, what expense in this wasteland. By the glass in the front door, Archie could see that he was covered with the dust and grime of travel. He removed his helmet and could see a sharp line where the relatively clean skin began. He attempted to brush some of the dirt from his forehead, then realized the foolishness of it. He stood tall and knocked on the door. His rap on the door was answered with frantic steps. The speed at which someone was approaching confused Archie. It had been a simple knock. The door swung open quickly and a severe-looking woman in a nurse’s uniform whispered. “Who are you? What are you doing! Don’t you know that the Monsieur isn’t to have visitors?” Taken aback, Archie asked, “Which one of those would you like me to answer first?” “None of them. Go away.” “My name is Archimedes Croryton and at Monsieur DuMont’s request I have spent some $30,000 of his dollars and traveled the better part of 2,500 miles to bring him pumps and an engine to clear his mine of groundwater.” “The mine? The mine!” She said, “Why didn’t you say so? You must see Mr. Pulaski, the Foreman!” then she started closing the door. Archie placed his boot against the jamb, and said, “I really think he will want to see me.” “Monsieur is not well!” From inside the house came an angry bark. “Esther! Who is it?” This was followed by a phlegmy coughing fit. “Go away,” Esther said, the anger in her eyes now replaced with pleading. Archie was unmoved. “His letter was quite clear. I am to present myself immediately upon arrival.” “Who is it!” Came the old voice again. “Is there something wrong at the mine?” Reluctantly, Esther opened the door, glaring at Archie as he entered. To the right of the door, Jean DuMont was getting up from a chair with some difficulty. He clutched a handkerchief to his mouth and coughed loudly, angrily as if he were yelling at disease itself. But in his manner, he attempted to play it off as if it were nothing. Archie had heard the rattling death sentence of that cough before. Tuberculosis. With the spirit of a true gentleman, Archie ignored the unpleasant noise, bowed his head and said, “Archimedes Croryton, at your service, sir.” The older man’s eyes twinkled and his grey face lifted in a smile. He asked “have you brought it? The means to drain my sump of a mine?” “Indeed sir, I have,” said Archie, and DuMont shook his hand heartily. DuMont said to Esther, “This is him! The boy wonder that Stevens found in Boston!” Esther shook her head and walked away. “Nevermind her. She’s professionally nasty. Keeps the riff-raff away. Come, sit. Refresh yourself.” They talked for the better part of a half an hour. DuMont had real enthusiasm, but he tired quickly, coughing and wheezing as he struggled to breathe. Esther hovered behind the old man, flitting in and out of the room