There was a pause in the narrative, to allow the listeners to take in the situation, and then the speaker went on: "It was a sight to see that chap pour the stuff down his throat. He was drinking, off and on, pretty much all night. Didn't come to till late the next afternoon. Rumsey was so pleased with the deal next morning, that he let the fellow lie behind the stove all day and sleep it off. Not sure but that he gave him a drink of water when he woke up, and water's high at Lame Gulch."
"Kind of a shame, I call it, to let him do it. Wasn't there anybody to stand treat?" It was Dicky, the lad of the sanguine countenance that spoke.
"Wonder what the claim was worth?" said the man with a mortgage on him.
"Wonder how he felt next morning?" queried another.
"Felt like an infernal donkey!" Hillerton declared, flinging away a cigar-stump and taking his legs down from the desk.
Then Peckham turned himself round to face the crowd, and said, in a tone of quiet conviction:
"The man was all right. If you only want anything bad enough, no price is too high to pay for it."
This was a sentiment which every one was bound to respect—every one, at least, excepting Hillerton.
"Sounds very well, Peckham," he said, "but it won't hold water."
The most surprising thing about Peckham's little speculations was that they all succeeded. It made the other men rather mad because he did not care more.