“We are to-day in receipt of following telegram from our Vancouver branch—‘Inform Wilford Heaton that Charles Mawson, Dawson City, has struck it seven dollars to pan.’ Bank of British North America, London.”
Such a message was utterly unintelligible to me.
“Well?” I inquired, raising my eyes and looking at him, surprised. “I don’t see why this Charles Mawson, whoever he is, need hasten to tell me that. What does it matter to me?”
“Matter? My dear sir? Matter?” he cried, staring at me, as though in wonder. “There must, I think, be something the matter with you.”
“Well, perhaps you’ll kindly explain what it means?” I said, “I have, I assure you, no idea.”
“Why, it means,” he said, his face betraying his intense excitement—“it means that Woodford’s report is correct, that there is, after all, rich gold on the concession; in short, that, being owner of one of the most valuable placer concessions, you are a millionaire!”
“That’s all very interesting,” I remarked with a smile, while he stood staring at me in abject wonder.
“I fear,” he said, “that you’re not quite yourself to-day. The injury to your head has possibly affected you.”
“No, it hasn’t,” I snapped quickly. “I’m quite as clear-headed as you are.”
“Then I should have thought that to any man in his sane senses such a telegram as that would have been extremely gratifying,” he observed.