Bob Bowen Comes to Town

by H. Bedford-Jones

Bob Bowen Comes to Town

By H. Bedford-Jones

I—MINING STOCK.

The fat man squeezed himself into the chair of the smoking-room, eyed the lean man and the drummer who had stretched out on the cushioned seat, wiped his beaded brow, and sighed.

“This central California,” he observed squeakily, “is the hottest place this side of Topheth! Thank Heaven, we get into Frisco to-night.”

The drummer from San Francisco resented the diminutive and gave him a casual stare. The lean man said nothing. Then the drummer turned to the lean man and picked up a thread of conversation which had apparently been broken by the fat man’s entrance.

“This here ruby silver, now,” he argued. “I’ve heard it ain’t up to snuff. Ain’t nothin’ in working it, they tell me.”

The lean man smiled. When he smiled, his jaw looked a little leaner and stronger, and he was quite a likeable chap.

“You can hear ’most anything, especially about ores,” he remarked, between pulls at his cigar. “But Tonopah was founded on ruby silver, and the Tonopah mines are not exactly poor properties to own.” His eyes twinkled, as if at some secret jest.