“Well?” Bowen dropped into a chair, as if casually. “Did you get Lyman yet?”
“The boy’s making out the papers now. I’ll buy. What did your lady friend say?”
Bowen felt a trickle of sweat run down his back. The game was won—almost!
“One thing at a time,” he said, laughing. “Let’s clean the Big Bony off the slate, then clean off the Apex Crown.”
“Uhuh. One thing I meant to tell you, Bowen. Keep your eye peeled for Henderson! That fellow is bad medicine when he’s crossed, and I judge by your manner that you have crossed him some this morning.”
“I did, I hope,” Bowen chuckled. The magnate grunted non-committally.
In ten minutes the ownership of the Big Bony group of claims was transferred from Bob Bowen to Dickover. The secretary and witnesses departed. Bowen pocketed the magnate’s check for thirty thousand dollars.
“You lost another thirty on that deal,” said Dickover complacently.
“I’ll clean up fifty with the thirty I got,” retorted Bowen. The other chuckled.
“I’ll gamble that you do, at that! Well, about the Apex Crown—”