“What mine did you say?” asked Barker, looking up meditatively from the dishes he was already washing.
“The Yellow Hammer First Extension,” returned Demorest shortly.
“I used to have some shares in that, and I think I have them still,” said Barker musingly.
“Yes,” said Demorest promptly; “the paper speaks of it here. 'We understand,'” he continued, reading aloud, “'that our eminent fellow citizen, George Barker, otherwise known as “Get Left Barker” and “Chucklehead,” is one of these fortunate individuals.'”
“No,” said Barker, with a slight flush of innocent pleasure, “it can't say that. How could it know?”
Stacy laughed, but Demorest coolly continued: “You didn't hear all. Listen! 'We say WAS one of them; but having already sold his apparently useless certificates to our popular druggist, Jones, for corn plasters, at a reduced rate, he is unable to realize.'”
“You may laugh, boys,” said Barker, with simple seriousness; “but I really believe I have got 'em yet. Just wait. I'll see!” He rose and began to drag out a well-worn valise from under his bunk. “You see,” he continued, “they were given to me by an old chap in return—”
“For saving his life by delaying the Stockton boat that afterward blew up,” returned Demorest briefly. “We know it all! His hair was white, and his hand trembled slightly as he laid these shares in yours, saying, and you never forgot the words, 'Take 'em, young man—and'—”
“For lending him two thousand dollars, then,” continued Barker with a simple ignoring of the interruption, as he quietly brought out the valise.
“TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS!” repeated Stacy. “When did YOU have two thousand dollars?”