"The Lulu!" Folsom's friend stared at him. "Haven't you heard about the Lulu? My God! Where you been, anyhow? Why, the Lulu's a mint! Guth is a millionaire and he made it all without turning a finger."
Folsom's grip on the bar-rail tightened until his knuckles were white.
"I'm telling you right, old man; he's the luckiest Jew in the country. He let a lay to McCarthy and Olson, and they took out six hundred thousand dollars, after Christmas."
"Guth offered me a—half interest in the Lulu when his store burned and—I turned it down. He's never paid me for that assessment work."
The Nomeite was speechless with amazement. "The son-of-a-gun!" he said, finally. "Well, you can collect now. Say! That's what he meant when he told me he wanted to see you. Guth was down to the boat when I left, and he says: 'If you see Folsom up river tell him to come back. I got something for him.' Those were his very words. That little Jew aims to pay you a rotten hundred so you won't sue him for an interest. By Gorry, I wouldn't take it! I'd go back and make him do the right thing. I'd sue him. I'd bust him in the nose! A half interest—in the Lulu! My God!" The speaker gulped his drink hastily.
After consideration, Folsom said: "He'll do the right thing. Guth isn't a bad sort."
"No. But he's a Jew; trust him to get his."
"I wouldn't ask him to do more than pay his debt. You see I refused his offer."
"What of that? I'd give it a try, anyhow, and see if he wouldn't settle. There's lots of lawyers would take your case. But say, that's the toughest tough-luck story I ever heard. You've sure got a jinx on you."
"I'm going back, but I won't sue Guth. I'm sick of Alaska; it has licked me. I'm going out to God's country."