Kirby watched Dean's face when he was writing this letter. It was intended for effect simply, and to dispel the suspicions of his young secretary. But Dean had been gaining rapidly in knowledge of the world, and especially in the knowledge of his employer, and he had little belief in his mining property.
"How much do you think that mining stock cost me, Dean?" said Kirby, in a confidential tone.
"I couldn't guess, sir."
"Four dollars and a quarter per share. How much would that be on two hundred shares?"
"Eight hundred and fifty dollars."
"Correct! I see you are quick at figures. Now, even if I sell at eighteen, and I am certain to get that, I shall make a very tidy profit. Let me see, it would foot up thirty-six hundred dollars—a profit of twenty seven hundred, allowing the extra fifty for broker's commission."
"Are you going to San Francisco, Mr. Kirby?" asked Dean.
"I may; I am not quite sure. It is a lucky city for me. Whenever I go there I make money."
Dean could not help wondering whether he made it in the same way as on the Fall River boat.