“Couldn’t you come down a bit in your price, old dear? Your figure seems deuced steep where mines seem to be so beastly plentiful,” Phil heard Hannington say.
At the door Dalton stopped.
“One thousand for the mine, and just to show you that I’m a real sport and playin’ fair, I’ll throw the white mare in for luck.”
Hannington gasped, then slapped Dalton on the shoulder 116 and grabbed his hand in ecstasy at the overflow of generosity on the part of the mine owner.
“Done,––done! It’s a bally go!”
And the two disappeared outside in head-to-head conversation, to the accompaniment of a round of loud laughter from some old timers in the saloon who had overheard part of the talk and who knew that once more a sheep was about to be shorn of its wool.
Phil swung round with his back and elbows on the counter. He surveyed the crowd dimly through the haze of smoke in the bar-room.
Just then Jim Langford came in by the swinging doors.
Phil went over to him directly, led him to a table in the corner, and told him in a few, quick sentences of the thieving visit that had been made to his room at Mrs. Clunie’s.
“There’s more in this than you think,” said Langford, after Phil had concluded. “Haven’t you heard the news of the other thieving in town?”