“Fine!” exclaimed the cowboy, getting up. “I’m Joe McGlory, from the land of sun, sand, solitude, and pay-streaks. I’ve run in here to——”
McGlory got no further. Random grabbed his hand effusively.
“We’ve been expecting you,” said he. “We have a meeting of the syndicate on Wednesday evening, and a letter from the colonel gives your name and informs us that you will be on deck with the bullion from the test run of the mill. If the gold shows up properly, there’s no doubt about our people coming across with the money. But we can’t talk here—some one is liable to drop in on us at any moment. This business is private, very private. Come with me, Mr. McGlory, and I’ll find a place where we can have a little star-chamber session.”
“I don’t want to tear you away from business,” protested McGlory.
Random waved his hand deprecatingly.
“Griggs will look after the office,” said he. “This ‘Pauper’s Dream’ matter is a big deal to swing, and I guess it’s worth a few hours of my time. This way.”
Random walked out into Liberty Street, rounded a corner, entered a door, passed through a barroom, and finally piloted the cowboy into a small apartment, furnished with two chairs, a table, and an electric fan.
After he and McGlory had seated themselves, Random pushed an electric button. A waiter appeared.
“What are you drinking, Mr. McGlory?” inquired Random. “I can recommend their Scotch highballs, and as for cocktails, they put up a dry Martini here that goes down like oil, and stirs you up like a torchlight procession.”
“Elegant!” cackled McGlory. “I reckon, neighbor,” and he cocked up his eye at the waiter, “that I’ll trouble you for a seltzer lemonade, mixed with a pickled cherry and the cross-section of a ripe orange.”