“Him!” Bowen grunted in disgust. “Stranger, that guy Henderson, just between you and me, is crooked as hell! Know what he did? Made Olafson give him fifty thousand dollars before he’d approve the sale! I sure do feel sorry for old man Dickover; some day that confidential agent, Henderson, is going to get into him good and deep, believe me!”
The fat man carefully extracted two fat, gold-banded, amazing cigars from a case, and extended one to Bowen.
“Smoke. You seem to be sore on that agent.”
“Not me, stranger. You can ask anybody on the ground.”
“H-m! Going to the Palace, I suppose? Best way to sell mines is to put up at the best place and make a splurge. But you know that, I guess.”
“I didn’t; but maybe I’ll take your advice. It listens good. No, don’t get the notion that I’m sore on the Dickover crowd. My ground isn’t the sort they’re after. It’s low-grade ore and heaps of it. I’ll get after the low-graders in Frisco, see?”
The fat man nodded knowingly. “What are your properties?”
“The Sunburst and the Golden Lode.”
For a space the two men smoked in silence. Bowen enjoyed his cigar; it had been long months since he had smoked a cigar whose aroma even approached this. Evidently the fat man was no pauper.
The word struck bitterness into Bowen. Pauper! He himself had just thirty dollars to his name. He would look fine, going to the Palace! Yet, why not? He could get by with it and let the bill run, on his appearance; if he sold his two mines, or either of them, everything would be fine.