“Just so, Mr. Hannington!”
“Meantime, though,––I intend buying a house here and settling down. I do like this Valley. It is so deuced picturesque, you know, and rural. When I’m properly established, I can go in for mining. On a hilly country like this, there ought to be good mining properties; gold, silver, etcetera. Don’t you think so, Phil?”
“There might be, if one could only hit them. I’ve never had enough time or money myself to take the matter up as a hobby.”
DeRue Hannington rose slowly from the table.
“Well, Phil, old top!––I’ve enjoyed our talk. I hope to see you again soon. Come and have a cocktail before I go!”
Phil got up, and they went into the bar together, where a number of Vernock’s seasoned bar-loungers were following their usual bent.
DeRue Hannington kept harping on his various money-making schemes, in his high drawling voice, which could be heard all over the saloon. Suddenly his eye fell on one with whom he seemed to be casually acquainted; a foppishly dressed, smooth-tongued rascal who dealt in horses, cards, bunco real-estate, insurance and anything else that brought a commission without much work. He was called Rattlesnake Jim by those who knew him, but Mr. Dalton by those who didn’t.
“Excuse me, Phil, but I would like to have a word with Mr. Dalton.”
Phil knew at once that Hannington was one of those who didn’t know Rattlesnake Jim.