“Who’ll I ship it to?” the agent asked, staring at the yellow lumps.
“Ship it to Uncle Sam’s Sister, ’Frisco,” was the answer.
The agent tested and weighed the “stuff,” and found there was five hundred dollars’ worth; it was genuine gold.
“Got it out of that hole up there that I bought of the tenderfoot,” beamed the stranger. “Everybody said there wasn’t anything in it; but they hadn’t seen me work my new and secret process. By and by they will begin to believe.”
“I suppose your sister will get this without any other name than that?”
The stranger had given a street and a number, but no other name for the consignee.
“Just that—Uncle Sam’s Sister. She’ll git it. If not, the company can ship it back to me at my expense.”
Some of the loafers, when outside, expressed their amazement; and if Uncle Sam had been selling stock in his new process the stock would have taken a boom.
Yet as the news spread there were comments of another kind.