“Mr. Bowen? I’m Harkness of the Chronicle. May I have two minutes of your time?”
Bowen affected to eye the young man in consideration.
Publicity! Well, why not? It might affect untold wonders for him. He was arriving in San Francisco unknown and unknowing. He had ore samples and assayers’ reports galore in his grip; but these might do him no good unless he got the impetus he needed. And publicity would give it to him. At least, publicity could not hurt him!
“Sure,” he said, nodding toward the parlors. “Come along and sit down.”
A moment later the two men pulled chairs together and relaxed comfortably.
“Shoot,” commanded Bowen laconically. The reporter grinned.
“I got a tip that you sold the Yellow Jack mine to Dickover for a million and—”
“Pause right there, Harkness!” Bowen lifted his hand, but smiled in his whimsical, likable fashion. “You’ve got it wrong. Dickover has just bought the Yellow Jack, but not from me. Don’t start me off with a false report like that, for the love of Mike!”
“Whew! Good thing you put me wise,” said Harkness frankly. “Well, do you mind telling me what mine you did sell to Dickover?”
Bowen gazed at him again, heavy-lidded. Was this rank deception? He decided that it was not. There was nothing crooked about it. Besides, Dickover had certainly known just how his words and manner to Bowen would be seen and recognized; Dickover had tried to do him a good turn. He was justified in taking advantage of the situation.