A few rods further on they came in view of Skinner's, lying like a dingy forgotten winter snowdrift on the mountain shelf.
It contained a post-office, tavern, blacksmith's shop, "general store," and express-office, scarcely a dozen buildings in all, but all differing from Collinson's Mill in some vague suggestion of vitality, as if the daily regular pulse of civilization still beat, albeit languidly, in that remote extremity.

There was anticipation and accomplishment twice a day; and as Key and Collinson rode up to the express-office, the express-wagon was standing before the door ready to start to meet the stagecoach at the cross-roads three miles away.

This again seemed a special providence to Key.

He had a brief official communication with Skinner as registrar, and duly recorded his claim; he had a hasty and confidential aside with Skinner as general storekeeper, and such was the unconscious magnetism developed by this embryo millionaire that Skinner extended the necessary credit to Collinson on Key's word alone.

That done, he rejoined Collinson in high spirits with the news, adding cheerfully, "And I dare say, if you want any further advances Skinner will give them to you on Parker's draft." "You mean that bit o' paper that chap left," said Collinson gravely.
"Yes." "I tore it up." "You tore it up ?" ejaculated Key.
"You hear me?
Yes!" said Collinson.
Key stared at him.