When he sought the “hotel personals” in the next morning’s Chronicle, he smiled!
With Mr. Dickover, on the Overland, arrived Mr. Robert Bowen, of Tonopah, who, it is rumored, has recently disposed of large holdings in the Dickover interests. Mr. Bowen is heavily interested in low-grade silver properties near Tonopah.
And upon the mining page were separate stories; one concerning the Yellow Jack, the other, by the authority of Dickover himself, flatly contradicting the rumor that the Dickover interests had anything to do with low-grade silver ores.
“If nobody calls my little bluff, all right!” thought Bowen. “Now for work.”
Having a list of every one who might put capital into his holdings, Bowen engaged a car by the day and set forth.
At four that afternoon, with ten dollars left in his pocket and no hope left in his soul, Bob Bowen of Tonopah reentered his room at the hotel and threw down his grip.
He had covered everybody, even to those in whom he had looked for no interest. And always the same story: courtesy, a good reception, growing caution, flat refusal. It seemed that nobody in San Francisco would put a cent into low-grade silver. The Arizona crash had scared every investor away from mines for the next six months.
Bowen swore savagely to himself. Then, at the jingle of the telephone bell, he stumbled across the room to the instrument.
“Mr. Bowen? A party has called you three times since this morning. Left the number: Mission 34852. Do you wish to call them?”
“If you please.”