“When I offered at fifteen I was trying to beat him down to ten. Don’t give a cent more. Go show him the money and say you’re willing to be buncoed once in your life. And hurry—for the love of Sancho, hurry!”
I found the prospector watching a roulette game with the sour gaze of a busted gambler. He went into the corner with me when I jerked invitation with my chin.
“I’ve changed my mind,” he growled, when I mentioned the stock. “And I wouldn’t do business with you anyway, you—”
I unfolded four five-hundred-dollar bills. He stopped his declaration as suddenly as if I had pinched his throat.
“Money is money, I suppose,” said he, “though your shin-plasters from the East are poor things alongside the good hard coin.”
“There’s the bank across the street, and they’ll give you the good hard coin, mister.”
He pulled out his packet and I verified the amount of the certificates.
I went to the bank in his company, for he seemed to be bothered with the notion that those five-hundred-dollar bills needed me as introducer and sponsor. Then he hotfooted out, weighted with the coin. In spite of myself and of my fresh faith in Mr. Flye, my heart sank considerably when I saw that money take legs. The cashier was one of the amiable citizens I had met in the delegation from the Chamber of Commerce.
“Making a little investment?” he inquired, sociably.
“A foolish one, I am afraid. But an Easterner who hasn’t had a flier in a gold-mine at least once in his life gets to feeling lonesome after a time. That chap has been chasing me around with stock and a story and I have tossed a little spare change to him.”