"About that job," continued Reeves, gravely, "I'm a little afraid you wouldn't just fill the bill."
For a moment Brent felt as though he had been slapped in the face. He had counted on the job—needed it. The next instant he was smiling: "Maybe you're right," he said, "I reckon I am a little rusty on hydraulics and——"
"I'd take a chance on the hydraulics," laughed Reeves, "But—before we go any further, what would you take for your title to those two claims that Camillo Bill has been operating?"
"Depends on who wanted to buy 'em," grinned Brent.
"What will you sell them to me for?"
"What will you give?"
"How would ten thousand for the two of them strike you?"
Brent laughed: "Don't you go speculating on any claims," he advised, "I'd be tickled to death to get ten thousand dollars—or ten thousand cents out of those claims—but not from you. It would be highway robbery."
"And if I did buy them from you at ten thousand, or a hundred thousand, you would be only a piker of a robber, as compared to me."
"What do you mean?"