The youth smiled.
“Why, a mere two thousand dollars,” he said with a shrug.
“Kind of a quiet night, I guess,” Burns returned, without any responsive smile. Then he folded his arms on the counter, gazing out of the half-open door, which was held back by a chain that could be released from behind the counter. “It’s queer,” he said. “That girl hadn’t more than two red cents back of last fall. And now—why, now she can handle more stuff than I’ve collected in twenty years. And she handles it right, too, that kid. They reckon she’s collected all the luck in Beacon. Well, I’d say she’s collected most of the business brains with it.” He laughed. “And she’s still buying city blocks.”
“And swell gowns,” added the teller with a grin.
“Well, I’d say she wouldn’t be the dandy girl she is if she didn’t. Say——”
Burns broke off. A pair of rough ponies had come to a halt outside. They were in full view through the open doorway.
“Cy Liskard,” he went on after a moment, as he beheld a man fling out of the saddle. Then he nodded at the gold scales. “Guess we’ll need them, sure. He’s a big gold winner.”
To a practical student of human nature like Victor Burns, Cy Liskard was of more than common interest. He had come into contact with him in business, and in business only. But, in consequence, he saw the man in his most interesting aspect. For, in his understanding, a man’s business was the best channel through which to discover the real depth of his character.
He had come to know him as one of the many individual gold men of the remoter places which radiated about Beacon. The first time he had encountered the man was just after winter had closed down, when he drove into Beacon with a curious, mongrel team of three utterly inadequate dogs, hauling a home-made sled which bore a goodly burden of raw gold dust of excellent quality. He had come straight to the bank and weighed in his treasure. The transaction had been made with the customary simple formalities, and the man’s credit had been duly opened. At that time Cy had only revealed himself to the banker as a surly, silent creature who had none of the reckless buoyancy of the men who usually came in to sell their dust.