“But they tell me,” persisted the drummer, “that ruby silver’s got too much arsenic in it to make development and smelting pay. Besides it comes in small veins—”
“It has not too much arsenic to make smelting pay—sometimes! It does not come in small veins—sometimes! Look at the Yellow Jack, the richest mine over at Tonopah! They busted into ruby silver; last week a bunch of mining sharks come and look over the outcrop. They wire east, and their principals pay a cool million and a half cash for the property. That’s what ruby silver did for the Yellow Jack!”
“How d’you know so much about, it?” demanded the drummer. “You been up that way yourself, eh?”
“I’m the man who sold out the Yellow Jack.” The lean man smiled again as he threw back his elbows into the cushions and puffed his cigar.
“Gee!” The drummer stared sidewise at his informant. Very manifestly, that mention of a million and a half was running in his mind. His eyes began to bulge under the force of impact. “Gee! Say, are you stringin’ me?”
Carelessly, the lean man reached into his vest pocket and extended a pasteboard.
“Here’s my card.” The twinkle in his gray eyes deepened a bit. “Bob Bowen—I guess ’most everybody around Tonopah knows me. I’m going to Frisco to sell a couple more mines.”
This time, the drummer took no umbrage at the hated word “Frisco.” Instead, he put out his hand with quick affability.
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Bowen! Here’s my card. Going to the Palace?”
Before the lean man could respond, the fat man leaned forward in his chair. He stared intently at Bowen, then spoke.