"Tell you, Matt," said Gayne, speaking slowly and nodding with tipsy solemnity, "'twas m' guardian angel guided me to that spring."
The carpenter glanced at him with disfavor. "One sniff's enough to convince anybody o' that," he remarked. "At that, it's better for you than the stuff you've got in there on the table. Now, look here, Gayne, you're going to be sorry to-morrow you told me about this—"
"Wouldn't tell anybody else," vowed Gayne, solemnly, seizing his companion by the arm and pushing back the concealing turf and stones with his foot. "Nobody else on this earth. Fools own the farm put up the price if they knew."
"But what I was going to say is you needn't be sorry," went on Blake. "I'm not going to tell a soul. I don't want to be mixed up in your affairs, but do you think you can understand if I talk to you?"
"Un'stand! Well!" exclaimed Gayne. "I'm a man o' brains I'll have you know."
"Well, if you've got any, use 'em now," said Blake impatiently. "There ain't any money in a mineral spring unless you've got piles o' dough to put it on the market. Don't you know that?"
"I sh'd say so," nodded Gayne, triumphant again. "That's just what I'm goin' to have: piles o' dough. Bushels."
"Where are you goin' to get it?"