Dickover purpled with indignation.
“You sold out to him; that dirty yellow dog? What the jumping devils do you mean by it? Why didn’t you sell to me—”
“Now, you just pour some ice-water over your scalp and cool off.” Bowen’s long, lean forefinger shot out at him. “How the jumping devils did I know you wanted to buy those claims? How did I know you wanted any low-grade stuff? In yesterday’s paper you said you did not want it—you’ve never touched it before—”
Dickover waved his hand in helpless resignation.
“Oh, shut up, Bowen! Let me think, will you?”
For a space the two men smoked in silence. Dickover’s fat features were tensed in frowning thought. To Bowen but one thing was patent: the magnate was now after low-grade silver ores. If he had not sold those two claims to Henderson in such a hurry! He had certainly been hoist with his own petard that time!
The thought made him chuckle. At the sound, Dickover began to speak slowly.
“Bowen, you say you want five dollars for that Apex Crown? Now, I’ll speak frankly. Apex Crown will be worth five dollars—but not for a few years. For the past week my men have been secretly buying it in at two cents; and now I want that block of yours. That or nothing! I’ll offer you par, one dollar, for that stock. If you refuse, I’ll wash my hands of the whole mess and throw what I’ve bought on the market at the present price. Speak quick! If I take the mine, it goes up in value. If I don’t take it, it’s dead.”
Bowen stared at his cigar.
He did not doubt that Dickover was in earnest. And suddenly a light broke upon him. It was vague and foggy, but it was light.