The fat man chuckled. The chuckle deepened into a billowing laugh that shook his broad frame, and the laugh became a roar of mirth. Bowen grinned wrily.
“Laugh your fool head off—I deserve it!” he went on. “Still, I’ll hand it to you at that. You with your talk of Dickover! That’s what made our late friend really sit up and rubber. Did you notice what reverent attention he paid to your fool dissertation on curb stocks? I’ll bet a nickel he’ll invest twenty dollars or so in Big Daisy or Apex Crown on the strength of your remarks.”
The fat man choked over his cigar, and flung it away.
“Didn’t you think much of my spiel?” he demanded. “Why, I thought I knew a little—”
“Huh!” grunted Bowen, yet no whit unpleasantly. “Stranger, if you really want to learn a little about curb stocks, you go and float around the mining country a bit. If I took your pointers on stocks, I’d be in a poorhouse next month!”
“Then you’re a broker?”
“No. Not by a long sight!” snapped Bowen. “I play a straight game.”
“No offense.” The fat man chuckled again. “You’re really going to sell a couple of mines in Frisco? Or was that bunk, too?”
“No, that was straight enough; not the selling part, maybe, but the trying.” Bowen sighed a little, and older lines showed in his lean face. “I’ve got two properties close in to the Yellow Jack.”
“Why didn’t you try selling them to Dickover’s agent?”