"By the way, my boy, I forgot something." He dashes off a check and hands it to the young painter.
"Tell me where to send for a man to frame this picture in good shape," he simply says.
He looks uneasily at the young man, whose senses fail him when he sees that the check is for five thousand francs.
"Is that all right?" he says cheerfully, nudging Armand in the ribs. "Cash on delivery, you know. I want another by and by. I'll pick out a picture I want copied. I'm going to build me a bachelor ranch on Nob Hill: Ophir Villa." He grins over some pet "deal" in his favorite Comstock. Dulcet memories.
For Colonel Joe Woods is a man of "the Golden Days of the Pacific." He too has "arrived."
The boy murmurs his thanks. "Now look here, I've got to run over to the Cafe Anglais, and see some men from the West. You give me your house number. I'll come in and see the padre to-morrow evening.
"Stay; you had better come and fetch me. Take dinner with me to-morrow, and we'll drive down in a hack."
The Colonel slips his pistol in its pocket, winks, takes a pull at the cocktail of the American, old Kentucky's silver stream, and grasps his gold-headed club. He is ready now to meet friend or foe.
Joy in his heart, good humor on his face, jingling a few "twenties," which he carries from habit, he grasps a handful of cigars, and pushes the happy boy out of the open door.
"Oh! never mind that; I've got a French fellow sleeping around here somewhere," he cries, as Armand signals the sanctum is unlocked. "He always turns up if any one but HIMSELF tries to steal anything. He's got a patent on that," laughs the "Croesus of the American River."