“Not a thing but just that,” Burns said quietly. “It’s the third big bunch of dust come in from the same place, by the same boy, in six months. And there’s more coming. I wanted you fellows to know about it because it’s my job to collect the stuff, and the more folks know about it the more they’ll worry to get after it. There’s big gold coming into Beacon, and I guess that’s the best news you——”
He broke off. Ivor McLagan had appeared in the open glass doorway leading on to the verandah.
“Say,” he cried, after a moment’s pause, “I hadn’t a notion you were in town, Ivor.”
Jubilee laughed.
“You ain’t much of a guesser, Burns,” he interjected. “Why wouldn’t McLagan be along in? Is he missing Max’s show any more than you and me? But say, Mac, tell us about oil. We just been hearing gold from Burns and now we want oil. The oil king is right with us, folk. He’s right in our midst,” he cried, with his ready laugh. “The soft yellow stuff gets us all the time, but nice, black, sticky oil’s only a short cut to it. You’re the guy to grease the wheels of Beacon right. Gold won’t be a circumstance when you open out one of your gushers. Sit around, man, and hand us news that’ll help us digest Max’s Dago feast right. Talk to us of options and borings and coal mountains, and all that sort of truck you can’t eat and I’ll buy you a highball right now, and swear to set up a swell piece by way of epitaph on your mausoleum when you’ve got mired to death in the juice you’re going to flood Beacon with. You’re our only hope of——”
“And a darnation poor one, Jubilee,” McLagan interrupted, “that is, right up to now.” He pulled up a chair and leaned his great body over it, while his plain face smiled indulgently on the irrepressible man who never failed to amuse him. “But we’re right on oil. We’ve hit a—trickle. A hell of a fine—trickle.”
Abe sat up.
“Is that right?” he demanded, his eyes lighting.
Ivor nodded.
“It surely is, Abe. You’ll be re-building this hogpen in a year’s time and you’ll need to add a hundred rooms.”