“Which means––?” queried Harris.
“Why,” continued Ketchim, smiling pallidly, “the little joker that James inserted in the contract, about your getting fifty thousand in the event of a favorable report. I told him it didn’t look well––but he said it would test you. He would be funny, though, no matter how serious the business. But you showed that you were men.”
Harris snickered; but Reed turned the conversation at once. “We have been studying how we could help you pull the thing out of the fire. Suppose you give us,” he suggested, “a little of Molino’s history. Then perhaps something may occur to us.”
“There isn’t much to tell,” replied Ketchim gloomily. “The mines were located by a man named Lakes, at one time acting-Consul at Cartagena. He is half Colombian, I believe. He came up to New York and interested Bryan, Westler, and some others, and they asked us to act as fiscal agents.”
“But you never had title to the property,” said Reed.
“Certainly we have the title! Why do you say that?”
“Because, on our way down the Magdalena river we made the acquaintance of a certain Captain Pinal, of the Colombian army. When he learned that we were mining men he told us he had a string of rich properties that he would like to sell. I inquired their location, and he said they lay along the Boque river. And I learned that he had clear title to the property, too––Molino’s mines. Now you have sold some three or four 36 hundred thousand dollars’ worth of stock on alleged mines to which you never had even the shadow of a claim!”
“But––” murmured Ketchim weakly, “we thought we had. We acted in good faith––we took Mr. Lakes’s word––and we showed our confidence and sincerity by purchasing machinery to operate––”
“Oh, the machinery went down there, all right!” ejaculated Harris with a laugh. “I judge it was designed to manufacture barrel staves, rather than to extract gold! Lakes had it shipped to Cartagena; rented part of an old woman’s house; dumped the machinery in there; and now she’s wild. Can’t get her pay from you for storing the machinery; and can’t sell the stuff, nor move it. So there she sits, under some six or eight tons of iron junk, waiting for the Lord to perform a miracle!”
Ketchim smiled feebly. “It’s too bad!” he murmured. “But Molino has no funds––”