"The sale? Early in the year I expect. I haven't any definite instructions as to that. I'm expecting 'em every day. All I've been told officially at present is to cancel all engagements. Of course I guessed what was in the wind then. I tackled old Bishop the Agent about it the other day; and he had to confirm it. Ah, well!" Jake heaved an abrupt sigh that seemed to catch him unawares, and became silent.
"P'raps he won't sell 'em all, Jake," said Bunny hesitatingly. "He couldn't--surely--sell The Hundredth Chance!"
Jake's pipe suddenly cracked between his teeth. He sat up sharply, and took it out of his mouth. It fell in twain between his fingers. He sat staring at it, then with a curious reverence he stooped forward and dropped the pieces into the heart of the fire.
"Yes," he said heavily. "I reckon The Hundredth Chance will go with all the rest."
He looked at Bunny, and there was desolation in his eyes; but he gave it no verbal expression. And Bunny also found that the subject demanded silence; it was beyond words.
"Does Maud know?" he asked at length, speaking rather doubtfully, as if not quite sure of his ground.
"No. I didn't want to worry her before I need." Jake's eyes went back to the fire, gazing into it, dumbly troubled. "I fancy there's no doubt that the old man will provide for her--for both of you. That's what I'm counting on anyway."
Bunny made an abrupt movement of impatience. "Oh, damn all that, Jake! What of you?"
For the first time his strong language went unrebuked. Jake's eyes remained fixed upon the fire where burned the remains of his treasure. He spoke slowly, as one reading words but dimly discerned.
"Reckon I shall go back to America. I shall find my feet again there. There's no call for you to be anxious about me. Guess I shan't starve."