“Do I understand, sir,” he squeaked, “that you are Robert Bowen, and that you have sold the Yellow Jack mine?”
“You do,” said Bowen, eying him.
“Upon my word!” The ejaculation was one of surprise and was followed by a chuckle. “My name is Dickover—of New York, Mr. Bowen. If I’m not mistaken, it was my agent who bought that mine of yours! Am I right?”
Bowen’s gray eyes hardened for a moment, and then they twinkled again and his lean hand shot forth.
“Well, well!” he exclaimed heartily. “Talk about unadulterated coincidence! And you’re actually Dickover; the Dickover? You’re the man who owns half the copper mines in Arizona and two-thirds of Tonopah?”
“Uhuh. Glad to meet you, Bowen. Going to Frisco, are you?”
The drummer looked from one to the other, agape. And small wonder! The name of Dickover was known wherever ores were smelted or mining stocks sold.
Bowen and Dickover gazed at each other, appraisingly. After a moment they began to discuss mining stocks. The drummer listened attentively, and after venturing one timid assertion which was promptly quashed by Dickover, ventured no more. At length the train slowed down, and he sprang to his feet.
“Gee, I’d plumb forgotten that I had to make a stop!” he said regretfully, and held out his hand. “Mighty glad to ’ve met you, Mr. Bowen. And you, Mr. Dickover. Mighty glad! May see you at the Palace in three-four days. Look me up, won’t you? So-long.”
So, breezily, he swung out of the smoking-room and from the train. Bowen carelessly watched him depart, then sat up with quickening interest.