"Meestaire Hartwell will do me ze honaire to mek ze drink?" Pierre inquired.
"Thanks." Hartwell answered the question addressed to him. "Mine is brandy."
"A-a-ah! Ze good discrimination!" purred Pierre. "Not ze whisky from ze rotten grain; but ze eau-de-vie wiz ze fire of ze sun and ze sweet of ze vine!"
Morrison placed glasses before each, a bottle of soda, and Pierre's choicest brand of cognac on the table.
"Help yourself," he remarked, as he sat down.
Sipping his brandy and soda, Hartwell opened the game.
"You see," he began, addressing Pierre, "things aren't running very smoothly out here, and I have come out to size up the situation. The fact is, I'm the only one of our company who knows a thing about mining. It's only a side issue with me, but I can't well get out of it. My people look to me to help them out, and I've got to do it."
"Your people have ze great good fortune—ver' great." Pierre bowed smilingly.
Hartwell resumed: "I'm a fair man. I have now what I consider sufficient knowledge to warrant me in making some radical changes out here; but I want to get all the information possible, and from every possible source. Then I can act with a perfectly clear conscience." He spoke decidedly, as he refilled his glass.
"Then fire that glass-eyed supe of yours," Morrison burst out. "You never had any trouble till he came."