Late one evening Chuck and some friends were dining at the Cliff House. They had been cruising up toward Tomales Bay, and had had themselves put ashore here. No one knew of their whereabouts. Thus it was that Chuck first learned of his father's death from apoplexy in the scareheads of an evening paper handed him by the majordomo. He read the article through carefully, then went alone to the beach below. It had been the usual sensational article; and but two sentences clung to Chuck's memory: "This fortunate young man's income will actually amount to about ten dollars a minute. What a significance have now his days—and nights!"
He looked out to sea whence the waves, in ordered rank, cast themselves on the shore, seethed upward along the sands, poised, and receded. His thoughts were many, but they always returned to the same point. Ten dollars a minute—roughly speaking, seven thousand a day! What would he do with it? "What a significance have now his days—and nights!"
His best friend, Joe Merrill, came down the path to him, and stood silently by his side.
"I'm sorry about your governor, old man," he ventured; and then, after a long time:
"You're the richest man in the West."
Chuck Gates arose. A wave larger than the rest thundered and ran hissing up to their feet.
"I wonder if the tide is coming in or going out," said Chuck, vaguely.