"He's got plenty o' grit, the General has."
"Has he got gold?"
Dillon nodded. "Or will have."
"Out of Minóok?"
"Out of Minóok."
"In a sort of a kind of a way. I think I understand." Benham wagged his head. "He's talkin' for a market."
Dillon smoked.
"Goin' out to stir up a boom, and sell his claim to some sucker."
The General reappeared with the whisky, stamping the snow off his feet before he joined the group at the table, where the Christmas-tree was seasonably cheek by jowl with the punch-bowl between the low-burnt candles. Mixing the new brew did not interrupt the General's ecstatic references to Minóok.
"Look here!" he shouted across to Mac, "I'll give you a lay on my best claim for two thousand down and a small royalty."