“Gone into the telegraph office—”
The great magnate broke in with a falsetto chuckle.
“Sure! You can gamble that he knows one or two newspaper men in Frisco. He’s tipping ’em off that we’re on the Limited. Get our names in the paper.”
Bowen looked a trifle startled. “Oh, hell!” he uttered disgustedly.
The two smoked in silence, no one else entering their compartment. Slowly the train pulled out and with gathering speed slipped westward. The fat man leaned forward again, his eyes on Bowen. Mirth shook his ponderous frame.
“Say!” he uttered. “I happen to know about that Yellow Jack mine. It was sold to Dickover of New York, all right; but it was sold by a big Swede named Olafson. No offense, pardner—but you’re some liar! What made you string that poor boob?”
Bowen laughed unassumedly, and the fat man laughed in sympathy with him.
“He asked too many questions—too curious. Anyway, I told him the exact truth!”
“Come on, come on!” squeaked the fat man scornfully. “I’m no chicken. You can’t put it over me, young man!”
“I’m not trying to,” said Bowen coolly, his eyes twinkling. “It’s a matter of record that I sold the Yellow Jack mine. Only, as it happens, I sold it to Olafson two years ago, before we dreamed there was any ruby ore in that locality! And I sold it for five hundred dollars. Now who’s the boob? Me, Bob Bowen! Don’t hold back, stranger; when old Olafson sold out for a million and a half, I quit Tonopah for good.”