Ashton moistened his lips, hesitated, and asked in an uneasy tone: "About—about how long do you expect to stay? I suppose you will stay, won't you?"
"Well, three or four days, maybe. As you probably know, Grif screwed the company up to offer me a stiff salary—on the strength of that Zariba work, I suppose. I didn't intend to take the offer at all, but my clothes were—they got rather out of repair on my Southern tour, and I came on up here without stopping at my tailor's. Happened to leave my checkbook, too, and it's a long walk to town."
"Oh, if it's only that you're strapped," Ashton hastened to reply; "I'll be pleased to draw you a check—little loan, you know—anything from a hundred to a thousand. No hurry about paying it back. I'm flush."
"You're too kind!" said Blake dryly.
"It's nothing—nothing—a mere trifle!" assured Ashton, with a touch of condescension. "You know I'll have scads of money to burn some day." He opened a drawer of his desk and took out a checkbook. "I know you can't be anxious to hang around a dreary hole like this. Suppose I make it five thousand? You can keep the money as long as you wish. There's just time for you to catch the extra train we're sending down to the junction for more steel."
"Thanks. But I need a good rest," said Blake.
"I'll think it over, and let you know. Maybe I'll decide to loaf around with you a few days and save borrowing."
"Oh, well, if you can stand this jumping-off place," replied Ashton, visibly disappointed.
He glanced down into the open drawer, and his eyes narrowed with a look of furtive eagerness that did not escape Blake. In a corner of the drawer was a squat black bottle and a tumbler. Ashton lifted them out and poured a half-glassful of whiskey that was thick and oily with age.
"The real stuff!" he said, holding out the tumbler to Blake. "Older than your grandmother. Let's wet your welcome to Michamac!"