“She’s good for more than that,” said McDill. “She’ll find the stuff they make dollars out of. That’s why she’s so beautiful. Takes the guesswork out of prospectin’.”
“Aw, yes,” Simon said. “Have you tested her in the field yet, Mr McDill?”
A rattle of laughter cackled across the barroom. It was as though a whiplash had been laid across the face of the little man; he flinched.
“Ask him,” drawled one of the audience, “why his dingus ain’t located no claims yet, if it’s so good.”
McDill faced the speaker, his chin high.
“Jest ain’t happened to look in the right places, that’s all,” he said stoutly, but there was a quaver in his voice. He turned to Simon. “You’ve seen her, mister. You’ve seen what she can do. All I need’s a grubstake and a little equipment. If you was, maybe, interested in minin’, we c’d be pardners.”
The Saint saw the general merriment waxing along the bar again, and had one of his ready quixotic impulses.
“Well, Mr McDill,” he said in a loud clear voice, “mining’s a little out of my own line, but I have a friend I might be able to interest. I’m certainly impressed by your demonstration. Here’s my San Francisco address.” He scribbled on a card and handed it to James Aloysius McDill, then he dug into another pocket. “And here’s fifty dollars for a week’s option on your gadget.”
He was aware of glasses being set down all along the bar, of incredulous eyes appraising his well-cut gabardines and evaluating, but it was mostly McDill’s reaction that he cared about.
The blue eyes in the seamed old face flamed with happiness. They could not resist a single triumphant glance at the hangers-on, then the little man’s hand stuck straight out.