CHAPTER VII
WALLY GETS ORDERS
Macdonald, from his desk, looked up at the man in the doorway. Selfridge had come in jauntily, a cigar in his mouth, but at sight of the grim face of his chief the grin fled.
"Come in and shut the door," ordered the Scotchman. "I sent for you to congratulate you, Wally. You did fine work outside. You told me, didn't you, that it was all settled at last—that our claims are clear-listed for patent?"
The tubby little man felt the edge of irony in the quiet voice. "Sure. That's what Winton told me," he assented nervously.
"Then you'll be interested to know that a special field agent of the Land Department sat opposite me last night and without batting an eye came across with the glad news that he was here to investigate our claims."
Selfridge bounced up like a rubber ball from the chair into which he had just settled. "What!"
"Pleasant surprise, isn't it? I've been wondering what you were doing outside. Of course I know you had to take in the shows and cabarets of New York. But couldn't you edge in an hour or two once a week to attend to business?"
Wally's collar began to choke him. The cool, hard words of the big Scotchman pelted like hail.