“Say, you’re rapid as a sick funeral,” he cried. “I ain’t got no time to waste. What I got here’ll need that—an’ more. Ther’!”
Beasley’s temper was never easy, and his narrow eyes began to sparkle.
“You’re mighty fresh,” he cried. “Guess I’m——”
But his remark remained unfinished. With a boisterous laugh the boy flung a small canvas bag on the counter and emptied its contents before the other’s astonished eyes.
“Ther’,” he cried gleefully. “I want dollars an’ dollars from you. An’ you’ll sure see they ain’t duds.”
Beasley’s eyes opened wide. In a moment he had forgotten his ill-humor.
From the gold spread out before him he looked up into the other’s face with a half-suspicious, wholly incredulous stare.
“You got that from your claim—to-day?” he asked.
“An’ wher’ in hell else?”