Bob Bowen Comes to Town
I—MINING STOCK.
The fat man squeezed himself into the chair of the smoking-room, eyedthe lean man and the drummer who had stretched out on the cushionedseat, wiped his beaded brow, and sighed.
“This central California,” he observed squeakily, “is the hottestplace this side of Topheth! Thank Heaven, we get into Friscoto-night.”
The drummer from San Francisco resented the diminutive and gave him acasual stare. The lean man said nothing. Then the drummer turned tothe lean man and picked up a thread of conversation which hadapparently been broken by the fat man’s entrance.
“This here ruby silver, now,” he argued. “I’ve heard it ain’t up tosnuff. Ain’t nothin’ in working it, they tell me.”
The lean man smiled. When he smiled, his jaw looked a little leanerand stronger, and he was quite a likeable chap.
“You can hear ’most anything, especially about ores,” he remarked,between pulls at his cigar. “But Tonopah was founded on ruby silver,and the Tonopah mines are not exactly poor properties to own.” Hiseyes twinkled, as if at some secret jest.
“But they tell me,” persisted the drummer, “that ruby silver’s got toomuch arsenic in it to make development and smelting pay. Besides itcomes in small veins—”
“It has not too much arsenic to make smelting pay—sometimes! It doesnot come in small veins—sometimes! Look at the Yellow Jack, therichest mine over at Tonopah! They busted into ruby silver; last weeka bunch of mining sharks come and look over the outcrop. They wireeast, and their principals pay a cool million and a half cash for theproperty. That’s what ruby silver did for the Yellow Jack!”
“How d’you know so much about, it?” demanded the drummer. “You been upthat way yourself, eh?”
“I’m the man who sold out the Yellow Jack.” The lean man smiled againas he threw back his elbows into the cushions and puffed his cigar.
“Gee!” The drummer stared sidewise at his informant. Very manifestly,that mention of a million and a half was running in his mind. His eyesbegan to bulge under the force of impact. “Gee! Say, are you stringin’me?”
Carelessly, the lean man reached into his vest pocket and extended apasteboard.
“Here’s my card.” The twinkle in his gray eyes deepened a bit. “BobBowen—I guess ’most everybody around Tonopah knows me. I’m going toFrisco to sell a couple more mines.”
This time, the drummer took no umbrage at the hated word “Frisco.”Instead, he put out his hand with quick affability.
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Bowen! Here’s my card. Going to the Palace?”
Before the lean man could respond, the fat man leaned forward in hischair. He stared intently at Bowen, then spoke.
“Do I understand, sir,” he squeaked, “that you are Robert Bowen, andthat you have sold the Yellow Jack mine?”
“You do,” said Bowen, eying him.
“Upon my word!” The ejaculation was one of surprise and was followedby a chuckle. “My name is Dickover—of New York, Mr. Bowen. If I’m notmistaken, it was my agent who bought that mine of yours! Am I right?”
Bowen’s gray eyes hardened for a moment, and then they twinkled againand his lean hand shot forth.
“Well, well!” he exclaimed heartily. “Talk about unadulteratedcoincidence! And you’re actually Dickover; the Dickover? You’re theman who owns half the copper mines in Arizona and two-thirds ofTonopah?”
“Uhuh. Glad to meet you, Bowen. Going to Frisco, are you?”
The drummer looked from one to the other, agape. And s