“What—what is it?” faltered Bart.
“A check. Can’t you see? A check that is good for forty-three thousand seven hundred and thirty-eight dollars.”
“Good for that? Why, it can’t be! Now, is this more of your joking, Merriwell? If it is, I swear I shall feel like having a fight with you right here!”
“It’s no joke, old man. That piece of paper is good—it is good for every dollar. The money is payable to me. I’ve got the dust to put my play out in great style.”
Even then Bart could not believe it. He groped for the bed and sat down, limply, still staring at the check, which he held in his hand.
“What’s this for?” he asked.
“It’s for the Fillmore treasure, which I found in the Utah Desert,” exclaimed Frank. “It was brought to me by the man who came in here a little while ago.”
Then Gallup collapsed.
His knees seemed to buckle beneath him, and he dropped down on the bed.
“Waal, may I be chawed up fer grass by a spavin hoss!” he murmured.