To sum up: there
were two thousand acres of vacant land between the Denny survey proper
and Chiquito River.
One sweltering day in July the Commissioner called for the papers in
connection with this new location. They were brought, and heaped, a
foot deep, upon his desk--field notes, statements, sketches,
affidavits, connecting lines--documents of every description that
shrewdness and money could call to the aid of Hamlin and Avery.
The firm was pressing the Commissioner to issue a patent upon their
location. They possesed inside information concerning a new
railroad that would probably pass somewhere near this land.
The General Land Office was very still while the Commissioner was
delving into the heart of the mass of evidence. The pigeons could
be heard on the roof of the old, castle-like building, cooing and
fretting. The clerks were droning everywhere, scarcely pretending
to earn their salaries. Each little sound echoed hollow and loud
from the bare, stone-flagged floors, the plastered walls, and the
iron-joisted ceiling. The impalpable, perpetual limestone dust that
never settled, whitened a long streamer of sunlight that pierced the
tattered window-awning.
It seemed that Hamlin and Avery had builded well. The Denny survey was
carelessly made, even for a careless period.
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