“Huh! It’s supposed to be good news, an’ Pop acts like it was an invitation to a funeral,” Jim grumbled. “He’s sure a bum actor!”
After Pop had consumed a few drinks, an optimistic conviction came to him that this plan of Allen’s, although he did not know just what it was, would work and the little outlaw would save his mine. So he no longer acted the part of a man who has just been saved from disaster, but in reality felt like one.
“Hello, Pop!” Bill Tucker greeted him. “Yuh look like the cat what just swallered the canary!”
“I sure feel all set up. Have a drink. I’m sorta celebrating.”
The two drained their glasses, and Pop ostentatiously drew the letter from his pocket, glanced at it, and then returned it, with a self-satisfied smile. The ruse worked perfectly.
“Did yuh get good news in the mail to-night?” the marshal asked.
“You betcha!” Pop hesitated and then added in a whisper: “I ain’t supposed to say nothin’—for some reason the gent wants me to keep it under my shirt—but he’s goin’ to buy a quarter interest in the American Beauty for five thousan’ dollars!”
“Who is he? Who’s the darn fool?” Bill Tucker’s genial manner dropped from him like a cloak, and he snapped out the question.
“He ain’t no darn fool! He’s connected with the bank an’ knows that the youngster what examined the American Beauty reported I’m due to hit the El Dorado lode!” Pop said aggrievedly and convincingly.
“What’s this gent’s name?” Tucker asked.