Bob Bowen Comes to Town

By H. Bedford-Jones

I—MINING STOCK.

The fat man squeezed himself into the chair of the smoking-room, eyed the lean man and the drummer who had stretched out on the cushioned seat, wiped his beaded brow, and sighed.

“This central California,” he observed squeakily, “is the hottest place this side of Topheth! Thank Heaven, we get into Frisco to-night.”

The drummer from San Francisco resented the diminutive and gave him a casual stare. The lean man said nothing. Then the drummer turned to the lean man and picked up a thread of conversation which had apparently been broken by the fat man’s entrance.

“This here ruby silver, now,” he argued. “I’ve heard it ain’t up to snuff. Ain’t nothin’ in working it, they tell me.”

The lean man smiled. When he smiled, his jaw looked a little leaner and stronger, and he was quite a likeable chap.

“You can hear ’most anything, especially about ores,” he remarked, between pulls at his cigar. “But Tonopah was founded on ruby silver, and the Tonopah mines are not exactly poor properties to own.” His eyes twinkled, as if at some secret jest.

“But they tell me,” persisted the drummer, “that ruby silver’s got too much arsenic in it to make development and smelting pay. Besides it comes in small veins—”

“It has not too much arsenic to make smelting pay—sometimes! It does not come in small veins—sometimes! Look at the Yellow Jack, the richest mine over at Tonopah! They busted into ruby silver; last week a bunch of mining sharks come and look over the outcrop. They wire east, and their principals pay a cool million and a half cash for the property. That’s what ruby silver did for the Yellow Jack!”

“How d’you know so much about, it?” demanded the drummer. “You been up that way yourself, eh?”

“I’m the man who sold out the Yellow Jack.” The lean man smiled again as he threw back his elbows into the cushions and puffed his cigar.

“Gee!” The drummer stared sidewise at his informant. Very manifestly, that mention of a million and a half was running in his mind. His eyes began to bulge under the force of impact. “Gee! Say, are you stringin’ me?”

Carelessly, the lean man reached into his vest pocket and extended a pasteboard.

“Here’s my card.” The twinkle in his gray eyes deepened a bit. “Bob Bowen—I guess ’most everybody around Tonopah knows me. I’m going to Frisco to sell a couple more mines.”

This time, the drummer took no umbrage at the hated word “Frisco.” Instead, he put out his hand with quick affability.

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Bowen! Here’s my card. Going to the Palace?”

Before the lean man could respond, the fat man leaned forward in his chair. He stared intently at Bowen, then spoke.

“Do I understand, sir,” he squeaked, “that you are Robert Bowen, and that you have sold the Yellow Jack mine?”

“You do,” said Bowen, eying him.

“Upon my word!” The ejaculation was one of surprise and was followed by a chuckle. “My name is Dickover—of New York, Mr. Bowen. If I’m not mistaken, it was my agent who bought that mine of yours! Am I right?”

Bowen’s gray eyes hardened for a moment, and then they twinkled again and his lean hand shot forth.

“Well, well!” he exclaimed heartily. “Talk about unadulterated coincidence! And you’re actually Dickover; the Dickover? You’re the man who owns half the copper mines in Arizona and two-thirds of Tonopah?”

“Uhuh. Glad to meet you, Bowen. Going to Frisco, are you?”

The drummer looked from one to the other, agape. And small wonder! The name of Dickover was known wherever ores were smelted or mining stocks sold.

Bowen and Dickover gazed at each other, appraisingly. After a moment they began to discuss mining stocks. The drummer listened attentively, and after venturing one timid assertion which was promptly quashed by Dickover, ventured no more. At length the train slowed down, and he sprang to his feet.

“Gee, I’d plumb forgotten that I had to make a stop!” he said regretfully, and held out his hand. “Mighty glad to ’ve met you, Mr. Bowen. And you, Mr. Dickover. Mighty glad! May see you at the Palace in three-four days. Look me up, won’t you? So-long.”

So, breezily, he swung out of the smoking-room and from the train. Bowen carelessly watched him depart, then sat up with quickening interest.

“Gone into the telegraph office—”

The great magnate broke in with a falsetto chuckle.

“Sure! You can gamble that he knows one or two newspaper men in Frisco. He’s tipping ’em off that we’re on the Limited. Get our names in the paper.”

Bowen looked a trifle startled. “Oh, hell!” he uttered disgustedly.

The two smoked in silence, no one else entering their compartment. Slowly the train pulled out and with gathering speed slipped westward. The fat man leaned forward again, his eyes on Bowen. Mirth shook his ponderous frame.

“Say!” he uttered. “I happen to know about that Yellow Jack mine. It was sold to Dickover of New York, all right; but it was sold by a big Swede named Olafson. No offense, pardner—but you’re some liar! What made you string that poor boob?”

Bowen laughed unassumedly, and the fat man laughed in sympathy with him.

“He asked too many questions—too curious. Anyway, I told him the exact truth!”

“Come on, come on!” squeaked the fat man scornfully. “I’m no chicken. You can’t put it over me, young man!”

“I’m not trying to,” said Bowen coolly, his eyes twinkling. “It’s a matter of record that I sold the Yellow Jack mine. Only, as it happens, I sold it to Olafson two years ago, before we dreamed there was any ruby ore in that locality! And I sold it for five hundred dollars. Now who’s the boob? Me, Bob Bowen! Don’t hold back, stranger; when old Olafson sold out for a million and a half, I quit Tonopah for good.”

The fat man chuckled. The chuckle deepened into a billowing laugh that shook his broad frame, and the laugh became a roar of mirth. Bowen grinned wrily.

“Laugh your fool head off—I deserve it!” he went on. “Still, I’ll hand it to you at that. You with your talk of Dickover! That’s what made our late friend really sit up and rubber. Did you notice what reverent attention he paid to your fool dissertation on curb stocks? I’ll bet a nickel he’ll invest twenty dollars or so in Big Daisy or Apex Crown on the strength of your remarks.”

The fat man choked over his cigar, and flung it away.

“Didn’t you think much of my spiel?” he demanded. “Why, I thought I knew a little—”

“Huh!” grunted Bowen, yet no whit unpleasantly. “Stranger, if you really want to learn a little about curb stocks, you go and float around the mining country a bit. If I took your pointers on stocks, I’d be in a poorhouse next month!”

“Then you’re a broker?”

“No. Not by a long sight!” snapped Bowen. “I play a straight game.”

“No offense.” The fat man chuckled again. “You’re really going to sell a couple of mines in Frisco? Or was that bunk, too?”

“No, that was straight enough; not the selling part, maybe, but the trying.” Bowen sighed a little, and older lines showed in his lean face. “I’ve got two properties close in to the Yellow Jack.”

“Why didn’t you try selling them to Dickover’s agent?”

“Him!” Bowen grunted in disgust. “Stranger, that guy Henderson, just between you and me, is crooked as hell! Know what he did? Made Olafson give him fifty thousand dollars before he’d approve the sale! I sure do feel sorry for old man Dickover; some day that confidential agent, Henderson, is going to get into him good and deep, believe me!”

The fat man carefully extracted two fat, gold-banded, amazing cigars from a case, and extended one to Bowen.

“Smoke. You seem to be sore on that agent.”

“Not me, stranger. You can ask anybody on the ground.”

“H-m! Going to the Palace, I suppose? Best way to sell mines is to put up at the best place and make a splurge. But you know that, I guess.”

“I didn’t; but maybe I’ll take your advice. It listens good. No, don’t get the notion that I’m sore on the Dickover crowd. My ground isn’t the sort they’re after. It’s low-grade ore and heaps of it. I’ll get after the low-graders in Frisco, see?”

The fat man nodded knowingly. “What are your properties?”

“The Sunburst and the Golden Lode.”

For a space the two men smoked in silence. Bowen enjoyed his cigar; it had been long months since he had smoked a cigar whose aroma even approached this. Evidently the fat man was no pauper.

The word struck bitterness into Bowen. Pauper! He himself had just thirty dollars to his name. He would look fine, going to the Palace! Yet, why not? He could get by with it and let the bill run, on his appearance; if he sold his two mines, or either of them, everything would be fine.

And if not—well, something would turn up.

“Yep,” he said abruptly, ending his thoughts in speech before he could check the impulse, “I guess that was good advice. I’ll go to the Palace.”

The fat man eyed him shrewdly, but Bowen was again lost in frowning thought.

At eight that evening the Limited was “in.” Bowen took a taxi up to the Palace. When he stepped up to the register of the big Market Street hostelry, he found his way blocked by the bulky figure of the fat man, who had just finished signing. The fat man turned from the desk, saw Bowen, and took him by the arm.

“Say!” he exclaimed. “Just a minute, Bowen. I want to thank you, old man, for that tip about my agent. I’ll sure bear it in mind. You’re all right!”

Slapping Bowen on the shoulder, he departed after an obsequious bellhop. For a moment Bob Bowen did not understand that speech; but as he leaned over the register and saw the signature of the fat man, he gulped in sudden, stark amazement.

Great glory! The fat man was Dickover, after all!

II—CALLED IN FOR CONSULTATION.

That evident recognition, that low murmur of confidential speech, that friendly slap on the shoulder, turned the trick. This Robert Bowen of Tonopah was manifestly known to the great Dickover; was palpably a friend of the great Dickover; was clearly and openly a confidant of the great Dickover!

Realizing this, Bowen grinned to himself as the desk clerk doffed all haughtiness and became cordially human. He realized it with greater emphasis as he turned from the desk and found a brisk young man at his elbow with extended card.

“Mr. Bowen? I’m Harkness of the Chronicle. May I have two minutes of your time?”

Bowen affected to eye the young man in consideration.

Publicity! Well, why not? It might affect untold wonders for him. He was arriving in San Francisco unknown and unknowing. He had ore samples and assayers’ reports galore in his grip; but these might do him no good unless he got the impetus he needed. And publicity would give it to him. At least, publicity could not hurt him!

“Sure,” he said, nodding toward the parlors. “Come along and sit down.”

A moment later the two men pulled chairs together and relaxed comfortably.

“Shoot,” commanded Bowen laconically. The reporter grinned.

“I got a tip that you sold the Yellow Jack mine to Dickover for a million and—”

“Pause right there, Harkness!” Bowen lifted his hand, but smiled in his whimsical, likable fashion. “You’ve got it wrong. Dickover has just bought the Yellow Jack, but not from me. Don’t start me off with a false report like that, for the love of Mike!”

“Whew! Good thing you put me wise,” said Harkness frankly. “Well, do you mind telling me what mine you did sell to Dickover?”

Bowen gazed at him again, heavy-lidded. Was this rank deception? He decided that it was not. There was nothing crooked about it. Besides, Dickover had certainly known just how his words and manner to Bowen would be seen and recognized; Dickover had tried to do him a good turn. He was justified in taking advantage of the situation.

“Frankly, Harkness,” said Bowen slowly, “I don’t want to name any names. I’m here to try and dispose of some low-grade properties; rich in ore, but not in rich ore. Maybe you know that the Dickover people touch nothing but pretty rich propositions in the silver field.”

“Sure, I understand.” Harkness nodded assent. “But I heard a rumor that Dickover was here for the purpose of opening up a low-grade system; somebody had invented a means of smelting—”

“Nothing to it,” asserted Bowen. “At least, I was talking about it with Dickover on the train, and he didn’t say—”

He checked himself abruptly. He had no business talking like this. Harkness, however, came to his feet as if unwilling to detain the magnate further.

“Much obliged for your time, Mr. Bowen; mighty good of you, I’m sure! No special news from Tonopah way? Nothing on the inside that you’d pass along—”

“Oh, sure!” Bowen grinned. “The Yellow Jack was sold to Dickover by a Swede named Olafson. I sold the mine to Olafson two years ago—for five hundred beans!”

Harkness whistled. “Say—but you wouldn’t let me use that, of course.”

“Go ahead. I should worry!” Bowen chuckled. “The joke is on me, and everybody up at Tonopah knows it. Only don’t make me out a fool, Harkness; two years ago there was no ruby vein known in that property.”

“Trust me! Thanks, a thousand times.”

Bowen went to his room, and sighed at the luxury of it. After that talk with the mining reporter, he had almost believed in his own assured wealth.

When he sought the “hotel personals” in the next morning’s Chronicle, he smiled!

With Mr. Dickover, on the Overland, arrived Mr. Robert Bowen, of Tonopah, who, it is rumored, has recently disposed of large holdings in the Dickover interests. Mr. Bowen is heavily interested in low-grade silver properties near Tonopah.

And upon the mining page were separate stories; one concerning the Yellow Jack, the other, by the authority of Dickover himself, flatly contradicting the rumor that the Dickover interests had anything to do with low-grade silver ores.

“If nobody calls my little bluff, all right!” thought Bowen. “Now for work.”

Having a list of every one who might put capital into his holdings, Bowen engaged a car by the day and set forth.

At four that afternoon, with ten dollars left in his pocket and no hope left in his soul, Bob Bowen of Tonopah reentered his room at the hotel and threw down his grip.

He had covered everybody, even to those in whom he had looked for no interest. And always the same story: courtesy, a good reception, growing caution, flat refusal. It seemed that nobody in San Francisco would put a cent into low-grade silver. The Arizona crash had scared every investor away from mines for the next six months.

Bowen swore savagely to himself. Then, at the jingle of the telephone bell, he stumbled across the room to the instrument.

“Mr. Bowen? A party has called you three times since this morning. Left the number: Mission 34852. Do you wish to call them?”

“If you please.”

Bowen hung up. Sudden hope was reborn within him for a brief moment. Who was so infernally anxious to see him? Who but some one to whom he had talked that morning—some one who wanted him to return—some one who now wanted to invest!

The telephone jingled again.

“Mr. Bowen?” To his intense disappointment, a feminine voice impinged upon his ear. Then his feeling changed. It was a nice voice and he liked it. It held a softly appealing note. He imagined that it held a trace of tears.

“Mr. Bowen, I’m a stranger to you; my name is Alice Ferguson. I used to be a stenographer for your friend Judge Lyman in Tonopah. In this morning’s paper I saw that you were here, and I wondered if I might see you for five minutes on a matter of business. It—it is about some stock in Apex Crown, and it means everything to me; and if I could possibly impose on you to the extent of asking your advice—”

“My dear Miss Ferguson,” exclaimed Bowen, warmth in his voice, “I remember you very well indeed, although I never met you formally. Sure, I’ll be only too glad to do anything in my power. Where are you now?”

“In my office at the Crothers Building. I’ll come over—”

“Not a bit of it! I’ll be there in five minutes. Good-by!”

Bob Bowen remembered Judge Lyman’s stenographer as a girl not particularly striking, but looking very feminine, capable, and as level-headed as a girl could be. He seized his hat and sought the quickest way to the Crothers Building.

As he strode along, his mind was busy—very busy. Apex Crown! That was a small producing mine over in the Tonopah district; like his own futures, Apex Crown was low-grade ore and barely paid expenses. It had been scraping alone for about three years with the stock down to five cents and less.

But on the train, the great Dickover had said to—buy Apex Crown!

Had Dickover been uttering a grim jest, thinking that the drummer and Bowen would rush to operate on his tip? Was Apex Crown worthless? And what was Alice Ferguson’s interest in this stock, this stock which on the curb market was unsought and unbought?

Bob Bowen reached the Crothers Building. The elevator-man informed him that Miss Ferguson was a public stenographer. Two minutes later he was shaking hands with her.

She was as he remembered her—dark, lithe, rather grave-eyed just at present but with merriment latent in her face; and altogether feminine. Bowen would have been amazed had he realized how he himself was smiling as he seldom smiled.

“I’ve often heard Judge Lyman say that you were the squarest man he knew, Mr. Bowen,” said the girl frankly, and smiled as Bowen stammered dissent. “Nonsense! That is why I called on you. I’m up against it and don’t know what I should do.”

“Neither do I,” returned Bowen cheerfully. “What’s the trouble?”

“Well, my father was a business man in Tonopah. He died three years ago, leaving me alone. After his death, it developed that he had sunk all his money in Apex Crown stock; this was in the early days, you know. The stock looked valuable, but there was no immediate demand for it. Then gradually it went down, and stayed down—”

“How much stock?” demanded Bowen.

“Ten thousand shares.”

“Whew! Say, that was a shame! A shame—”

“No. My father had good judgment as a rule,” was the grave rebuke, and Bowen fell silent. The girl pursued her subject coolly. “This morning a broker looked me up and made me an offer of ten cents a share for the stock. I refused him, and he went up to twenty cents—”

“He—what?” broke out Bowen. “Twenty cents?”

“Yes. I told him that I’d give him my answer to-morrow. The paper said that you were largely interested in low-grade ores, and I thought you might know something about this Apex Crown. If it’s really worth anything, of course I don’t want to throw it away—”

“Hold on a minute!” Bowen drew forth an afternoon paper which he had bought and had stuffed into his overcoat pocket without reading. “I don’t know anything definite, but if anything has broken loose—ah! Here we are! Look at this!”

Excitedly he laid on the desk before her the opened paper. His finger pointed to an obscure paragraph—a list of curb stocks. The first stock was Apex Crown. Five thousand shares had changed hands, at a price of five cents, before the paper had gone to press.

“Now, see here, Miss Ferguson!” exclaimed Bowen. “Yesterday on the train, I met Mr. Dickover; the big plunger, you know! He said to buy Apex Crown. Naturally, I thought he was handing me a stinger by way of a joke. But here five thousand shares have changed hands to-day! Do you realize that for the last year or two nobody would have that stock at any figure? And here a broker comes to you with an offer for your block—”

They stared at each other, wordless. A touch of crimson crept into the girl’s cheeks. Their eyes exchanged the same message of comprehension, of surmise.

“You think,” said the girl suddenly, “that Dickover is taking control of Apex Crown?”

Bowen was silent for so long that the silence became painful.

“No,” he returned at last. “No. I don’t think he is. My cool judgment says he is not. But what’s judgment anyhow? You hang on to that stock, Miss Ferguson!”

She flushed a little, but her eyes dwelt on his. “I—I need the money it would bring at twenty cents,” she faltered. “And yet—look here, Mr. Bowen! I suppose you’re a very busy man and I have no right to ask it—”

“I’m not busy,” said Bowen bitterly. “I’m on a vacation. I’ll do anything you ask.”

“I was wondering if—if you would let me indorse the stock over to you, and then you could act as you think best. Either sell it, or bargain for a higher figure—”

She paused, her grave eyes intent upon his lean-muscled face.

“If it’s too much to ask of you,” she went on, “please say so. I don’t want to make you trouble or to impose on you, Mr. Bowen; you’re been altogether too good in wasting this much of your time on me—”

“Wasting it? Great Jehu! I was just kicking myself for wasting so much time in not knowing you—I mean,” he added confusedly, “for not having wasted a little time in the past—no, I don’t mean that either. Well, if you’re willing to trust me, I’ll do my best in the matter! Where’s the stock?”

“I have the certificates here,” and the girl turned to the desk, but not quickly enough to hide the new tide of crimson that had welled into her face. It was not hard for any young lady to see that Bob Bowen of Tonopah was flustered. And Bob Bowen, as this young lady knew very well, had the reputation of never being flustered by anything or any one.

Why should she not blush, at such an unspoken compliment?

III—A QUICK SALE.

On the following morning Bob Bowen did not at once leap up and dress, nor did he disturb the morning paper. Instead, he lay quiet and frowned at the ceiling.

“No doubt at all about it,” he reflected. “She never said a word about it, of course. She’s not that kind. Just the same, it was there. It was in her eyes. Fear! She was afraid of something. That’s why she gave me that stock in trust.”

Instinct told him that he was right. Instinct had warned him from his first sight of Alice Ferguson that she was afraid of something. She had appealed to him for advice, yes; but fear had driven her further than she had first meant to go. Bowen had seen that hidden fear ere this, but not in the eye of a woman. It angered him.

What the devil was she afraid of? Rather—of whom? The answer was to Bowen quite obvious. Bowen had no use for brokers anyway. That hound of a broker who had visited her, had made some kind of threats, or had said something which put fear into her. Bowen swore to himself and looked at the time. It was seven thirty.

“I’ll do it,” he muttered, and opened his paper to the mining and stock page.

Instead of an obscure paragraph, he found that Apex Crown had leaped into prominence. The reasons, however, were entirely unknown. On the previous day some eight thousand shares had changed hands in San Francisco, and the price had closed at five cents bid, none offered.

In Los Angeles, however, things were different. Southern California was the “boob” end of the State, where people speculated with penny stocks. Here a great deal of Apex Crown had been unloaded in past years, and yesterday had wakened the moribund stock. Here the price had closed at five and a half. Twelve thousand shares had been quietly picked up at two and three cents before the market had discovered the activity.

“Somebody’s got agents at work, all right,” said Bowen grimly. “And they offered the little girl as high as twenty! Wonder if Apex Crown broke into ruby ore? No, that’s not likely over on those holdings. Something’s going on secretly.”

At that moment the telephone jingled.

“Yep, this is Bowen speaking. Who? Say it again. Oh, Dickover! Thought you were out of town—”

“I was,” returned the squeaky voice of the fat man. “Now I’m back. And I want to see you right now. I’m coming up to your room.”

“Come ahead.”

Bowen struggled into his clothes hurriedly, wondering why Dickover was seeking him. After that ten-thousand-share block? No, Dickover wasn’t buying low-grade stuff.

Five minutes later the fat man entered the room, puffing a little and eying Bowen with angry suspicion. He refused to sit down.

“See here!” he broke out suddenly.

“When I slipped you a tip to take a flier in Apex Crown I didn’t mean for you to jump into the market with both feet! Confound you, Bowen, what’s back of this? Why are you buying stock all over California?”

Bowen’s eyes twinkled as he surveyed his visitor.

“Guess you’re on the wrong track, Dickover,” he drawled. “When you told me about Apex Crown, I figured you were handing me a bum steer. I haven’t bought a share of the stuff. Straight!”

“What? You mean it?” Dickover said.

Bowen laughed easily. “I’ll prove it. I haven’t ten dollars to my name, and if the hotel wanted me to pay my bill I’d have to work it out in jail. I’d look fine going around buying stock, I would!”

There was no doubting his words. Dickover mopped his round face.

“Damn it!” he said. “Who’s doing it?”

“How much is it worth to you to know? I can tell you before ten o’clock.”

“You can? What d’ you know about it?”

“A friend of mine holds a block of ten thousand shares. Was offered twenty cents for it yesterday. Asked my advice, then transferred the stock to me to be held or sold on my judgment.”

“Ten thousand shares, eh?” Dickover’s eyes narrowed. “Give you thirty.”

“I’m not selling. Do you want to know who’s buying, or don’t you? How much for my information? I’ll find out who wants this block—if you offer enough. I owe a bill here.”

Dickover grunted. Then he emitted a falsetto chuckle.

“Five hundred. Waiting for you at ten o’clock.”

“And your interest in the property?”

Dickover grunted, turned, and left the room.

Bob Bowen hastened down to breakfast. He had learned that the magnate was keenly interested in Apex Crown—wanted to buy it himself. Why? The only plausible explanation was that Apex Crown had broken into a rich lode, and from his knowledge of the place Bowen thought this unlikely.

At eight forty-five Bowen was striding toward the Crothers Building. He had plenty to puzzle him, but refused to let himself be puzzled. He needed that five hundred dollars and needed it very much.

He went straight to Miss Ferguson’s office, and found her just arrived. She greeted him with patent surprise, but with a smile that left no doubt of his welcome.

“Has that broker been here yet?” demanded Bowen bluntly.

“That broker? Oh, no! He didn’t say what time he’d be here for his answer.”

“He didn’t need to. I figure that nine o’clock will fetch him, and if you don’t mind, I want to sit around on the chance.”

The girl looked away from him a moment, looked at the window, frowningly.

“Of course I don’t mind,” she said at last. “Only—I don’t want you to lose your temper with him—”

Bowen laughed frankly, a boyish laugh that was good to hear on his lips.

“I never had any temper,” he said. “I’m the mildest little fellow you ever did see, Miss Ferguson! Honest. I’m a business man. Now, suppose you sit down and let me dictate a letter to Judge Lyman. I don’t mean to send it, but I mean your broker friend to hear me dictating. When he comes in, nod and smile and tell him to wait.”

The girl sat down before her machine and slipped a sheet of paper into the roll.

“All ready?” asked Bowen. “Then shoot!”

“My dear Judge:
“I’m here in the big town and having the time of my life. Them are the exact words. I yesterday met your erstwhile stenographer, Miss Ferguson, who has an office of her own and deserves it. I don’t know of any one I’d sooner have met—”

Bowen paused, meeting the girl’s eyes on his. “That’s all right,” he said hurriedly. “I’m writing the judge. Confidential letter. Go ahead!”

Smiling a little, the girl leaned forward. At that instant, however, the office door opened and a man appeared framed in the opening. Bowen gave him a casual glance. Miss Ferguson looked up and smiled—a bit frostily.

“I’ll be through this letter in a moment,” she said, “and shall be at liberty then. Just take a chair, please. Yes, Mr. Bowen?”

“Paragraph,” said Bowen, now staring past her at the window. He was conscious that the stranger had taken a chair. “You got that property location all straight now?”

Miss Ferguson glanced up quickly, caught Bowen’s vacant expression, and smothered the surprise in her eyes. “Yes,” she said. “All ready.”

Bowen proceeded with his dictation, apparently ignoring the listener.

“For these two holdings of mine—the Sunburst and the Golden Lode—I want more money than has been offered me as yet. They are, of course, low-grade ore, and if I can get rid of them at a reasonable figure, I shall do so at once.

“However, I have an appointment with Mr. Dickover at ten o’clock, and have good reason to believe—”

There came a sudden interruption—from the stranger.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, stepping forward. “Of course I couldn’t help overhearing your dictation, sir. May I ask if you are Mr. Robert Bowen of Tonopah?”

Bowen gave him a slow stare. “I am.”

“By George! It’s lucky I met you, then. I arrived from Tonopah myself a couple of days ago, and have been trying to connect with you. My name’s Henderson. While at Tonopah I looked over your holdings, among others; and if you’d consider an offer on them—”

Bowen drew a cigar from his pocket, bit off the end, and lighted it. He surveyed Henderson with indecision.

“I don’t know you, Mr. Henderson,” he observed coolly. “I don’t want to sell those two properties, but I happen to need cash—in a hurry. My samples and assayers’ reports are at the hotel—”

“I remember the properties very well,” broke in Henderson. “I know you by reputation, and I know your ground by personal examination. Frankly, Mr. Bowen, I’m bucking the Dickover interests in a certain direction. If you’ll give me an option—”

“Nothing doing!” snapped Bowen with finality. “Dickover is talking cold cash. Of course my ore is nothing wonderful—”

Henderson produced a check-book. “I’ll give you a check for five thousand to cover both claims,” he said quickly. “Not a cent more. Yes or no?”

“Now, I like your way of doing business!” said Bowen cordially. “That’s what I call a man’s way. Five thousand wins. Got any legal forms around, Miss Ferguson? Are you a notary?”

“I have and I am,” said the girl quietly.

Twenty minutes later, with a witness called in from next door, Henderson was the owner of the Sunburst and Golden Lode claims. Bowen picked up the check for five thousand and handed it to Miss Ferguson.

“I don’t know you, Henderson,” he said quietly, “and I need cash badly. Further, I have an engagement in half an hour with Dickover and this must be settled one way or the other. So, Miss Ferguson, kindly step around the corner to the bank and cash this check for me. Good thing you deal with a local bank, Henderson.”

“I’ll go right with the young lady,” spoke up Henderson. “I can facilitate the cashing of the check, perhaps.”

“No,” said Bowen, his gray eyes suddenly icy. “No. You stay here, Henderson. I want to have a little private conversation with you.”

Henderson looked at him hard. Bowen’s tone had not been nice; but then, Bowen seemed to be on the inside, and private conversation was an alluring bait.

“Well—” he hesitated.

“You’d better stay,” said Bowen calmly. Then he rose and stepped outside the door as Miss Ferguson left. He closed the door again and spoke to the girl in a low voice.

“Cash that check, then run up to the Palace and wait for me, will you? Please!”

The girl nodded. Her eyes sought his with a mischievous gleam. “You won’t hurt him?”

“Hurt him? Great Jehu! I should say not! Why, he’s Dickover’s confidential agent!”

IV—BOWEN HOLDS THE ACE.

Bob Bowen reentered the office, closed the door, set his chair against it, and sat down. Then he regarded the surprised and frowning “broker.”

Mr. Henderson was a man to be seen once and remembered. He had a large nose, thin slits of black hawk-eyes, shaggy black brows, and a thin red line of mouth under a closed-clipped mustache. An able man, a forceful man, an unscrupulous man, this confidential agent of the magnate Dickover! Bowen, however, did not appear to be much impressed.

“You wonder why I’m sitting against the door, Mr. Henderson?” he drawled, chewing at his cigar. “For the obvious reason. To keep you from getting out.”

Henderson stiffened. He was startled and taken aback. But Bowen continued his drawl without observing the agitation of the impeccably dressed agent.

“There’s silver,” he ruminated, “and silver. Bar-silver used to be forty-seven; now it’s over ninety and still climbing. A low-grade ore that cost eight dollars a ton to produce a few months ago and gave back eight dollars, was no good. Now, however, it gives back eight dollars’ profit and is a paying proposition. Those claims I sold you are that kind.

“Some day, and I guess it isn’t very far off, folks are going to discover a chemical process that will take a zinc-silver ore and separate the zinc and the silver. An ore of that kind to-day, isn’t worth a tinker’s dam. If that chemical process is discovered, it will be worth millions. And tucked up in my sleeve I’ve got a property just like that.”

Henderson rose impressively.

“See here, Bowen,” he observed, “I don’t see what you’re driving at, but if you mean that I can’t leave this room—”

“You can leave it pretty quick,” drawled Bowen. “But remember one thing! I’d like nothing better than to mix it with you! I’m just itching to hold you in a corner and pound off that big nose of yours; so don’t start anything unless you want me to finish it.”

“What do you mean talking to me like that?” snarled Henderson angrily. “A moment ago you sold me two claims, and now—”

“And now, having concluded business before pleasure, I’m talking. Miss Ferguson has transferred her block of Apex Crown to me.”

Henderson’s eyes narrowed. He started to speak, and bit back the words.

“That’s right, don’t get hasty,” and Bowen grinned exasperatingly. “Took you by surprise, did it? Thought I didn’t know you, eh? Well, I had sort of figured out that you might be you, and when you stepped in the door I knew it was you. Picking up low-grade silver properties, are you? I don’t suppose that by any stretch of friendship you’d tell me why you’re picking them up?”

Henderson’s face went livid with anger.

“So you cut in ahead of me!” he rasped. “You got that little fool of a girl to hand over the stock—”

“Just one minute, Henderson!” Bowen lifted his hand. “I’ve got a terrible temper. It doesn’t work very hard, not every day; but to hear names and epithets applied to honest women is something that sets it on a hair-trigger. Now, if I were you, Henderson, I’d just speak names and leave out the adjectives. Do you get me? Get me right off the jump?”

Henderson swallowed hard. It was plain to see that he was seething internally. But he knew men; that was his business. He looked into Bowen’s gray eyes, and controlled himself.

“What do you want?” he said slowly, his voice low and tense. “What are you driving at? Trying to force a bigger price for that stock out of me?”

“Nope,” returned Bowen cheerfully. “But it isn’t nice for a big man like you to come in here and try to threaten and browbeat a girl into giving away all she’s got in the world. It’s going to get you badly beaten up one of these days. However, now that you’re dealing with me you might prove reasonable. How much will you give for that Apex Crown?”

“Thirty,” growled Henderson.

“Buyin’ for Dickover or yourself?” asked Bowen softly.

The agent uttered a lurid curse. Bowen rose and kicked away his chair, and opened the door.

“I thought so,” he remarked cheerfully. “Well, I guess that check’s cashed, so I’ll mosey along. You needn’t wait here for Miss Ferguson; she won’t be back for quite a spell. And don’t come down in my elevator; wait till I’m out of the way. And say—when you do come, shut the door after you, will you? So-long.”

Bowen closed the door softly and strode off to the elevator. On the way down, he glanced at his watch. It was nine fifty.

“Lots of time,” he thought. “I’ll see Dickover, then meet the little lady.”

At two minutes before the hour he inquired at the desk for Dickover, and was sent up to the latter’s suite. He found Dickover declaiming to a private secretary, who admitted him and then retired discreetly. Bob Bowen dropped into a chair beside Dickover’s table and accepted the cigar shoved at him.

“I like your cigars,” he observed pleasantly. “The flavor is a little strong for my taste, but it’s real tobacco. And then the label is pretty. Don’t know when I’ve ever seen a prettier one—”

“Confound you!” snapped the fat man. “What d’ you know?”

“Well, I’m thirty years old, pretty near, and you’d be surprised to find how much I’ve learned in the last decade of that time! Experience is—”

“Damn your experience!” exploded Dickover. “Do you know who’s buying Apex Crown?”

“Of course. Don’t you?”

For answer, Dickover seized a check from the table and held it out. It was for five hundred dollars.

“Thanks.” Bowen stuffed it carelessly into his pocket. “Since seeing you this morning I’ve become fairly rich, and this will add a trifle to the pile. Your agent, Henderson, is the man after Apex Crown. Just offered thirty for the stock I hold.”

The fat features of Dickover purpled with anger. But he suppressed his emotion, drew another cigar from his pocket, and lighted it.

“I rather suspected it, Bowen,” he squeaked more calmly. “Of course you didn’t sell him the stock?”

“No. I’ll sell it to you if you want it.”

“Huh! How much you want?”

“Five dollars a share.”

Dickover abandoned the subject, after an apoplectic choke.

“Tell you what, Bowen; that tip of yours sent me up to Tonopah in a hurry. I looked up Henderson and fired him—fired him good and hard. The confounded crook! Now I need another man to take his place. A man I can trust, and a man who can be trusted. Ten thousand a year if the man makes good.”

“Too bad you didn’t look around at Tonopah,” said Bowen innocently. “I know heaps of good men up that way. You should have gone to Judge Lyman or Tom Jerkens or some of those men and had ’em pick you out a nice responsible party for that job. They know everybody up there. Where do you get these cigars? Think I’ll buy me a box.”

Dickover smoked for a moment in silence. Then he laughed.

“I did snoop around up there, Bowen,” he remarked at last. “What kind of a cuss are you? This morning you couldn’t pay your hotel bill; and now you turn down a ten-thousand-dollar job!”

Bob Bowen sighed.

“Well, I do say that it’s tempting. It’s just that, Dickover. But now I’ve got responsibilities, such as that Apex Crown stock.”

“Huh! Well, you know those mines you told me about—the Sunburst and the Golden Lode? I looked ’em up in Tonopah. How much you want for ’em both?”

Bowen looked up, genuinely startled. “You want to buy?”

“Uhuh. If the price is right.”

Bowen grinned. “Say, this is pretty rich! Listen here. An hour ago I was talking with Henderson, and talking soft. Somehow he got the notion that you were waiting here to buy those two claims off me. Savvy? He jumps into the breach with five thousand, which is now mine. The claims are his—”

Dickover purpled with indignation.

“You sold out to him; that dirty yellow dog? What the jumping devils do you mean by it? Why didn’t you sell to me—”

“Now, you just pour some ice-water over your scalp and cool off.” Bowen’s long, lean forefinger shot out at him. “How the jumping devils did I know you wanted to buy those claims? How did I know you wanted any low-grade stuff? In yesterday’s paper you said you did not want it—you’ve never touched it before—”

Dickover waved his hand in helpless resignation.

“Oh, shut up, Bowen! Let me think, will you?”

For a space the two men smoked in silence. Dickover’s fat features were tensed in frowning thought. To Bowen but one thing was patent: the magnate was now after low-grade silver ores. If he had not sold those two claims to Henderson in such a hurry! He had certainly been hoist with his own petard that time!

The thought made him chuckle. At the sound, Dickover began to speak slowly.

“Bowen, you say you want five dollars for that Apex Crown? Now, I’ll speak frankly. Apex Crown will be worth five dollars—but not for a few years. For the past week my men have been secretly buying it in at two cents; and now I want that block of yours. That or nothing! I’ll offer you par, one dollar, for that stock. If you refuse, I’ll wash my hands of the whole mess and throw what I’ve bought on the market at the present price. Speak quick! If I take the mine, it goes up in value. If I don’t take it, it’s dead.”

Bowen stared at his cigar.

He did not doubt that Dickover was in earnest. And suddenly a light broke upon him. It was vague and foggy, but it was light.

“See here!” He leaned forward earnestly. “I’ll put this Apex Crown offer up to my friend—she’s a lady. I’ll go to my own room and call her up. In the mean time, you get Tonopah over long-distance. Anybody there you’d trust down to the ground?”

Dickover, eying him, nodded. “Judge Lyman is my local attorney there and is one of the best men I know in the world.”

“That goes for me. Well, you want low-grade ores of big body and zinc-silver mixture; same as the Apex Crown and Sunburst and Golden Lode, eh? All right. Now, I’ve had an ace up my sleeve for some years. I’ve called it the Big Bony, and it’s located down Rhyolite way. The ore runs zinc-silver strong, just like these others; only Big Bony has it in large quantities.

“Until about ten minutes ago, Dickover, that group of claims was not worth a cuss. To you, if my guess is right, it’s now worth all the money I need in my business—say thirty thousand dollars. Judge Lyman knows all about it; has had assayers report on it, has visited the place himself with me, and owns a bunch of claims the other side of it. You call up Lyman before I come back.”

“Yes?” prompted Dickover as Bowen paused. The magnate was keen-eyed, attentive.

“That ore, I believe, is what you want. It’s really worth a big bunch more than thirty thousand; but I’m needing thirty thousand bad, right now! Will you buy it at that?”

Dickover reached for the desk telephone. “I’ll talk to Lyman. His word is good for all the money I own.”

“Good! I’ll be back pretty soon.”

Bob Bowen sought his own room and requested the office to page Miss Ferguson, who was somewhere about the parlors.

While waiting, he strode up and down savagely. Ten thousand dollars meant a fortune to this girl! If the offer was rejected, Dickover would carry out his word and flood the market with Apex Crown. Sooner than make Henderson rich, he would smash Apex Crown and Henderson together.

The telephone jingled. Bowen caught up the receiver and heard Miss Ferguson’s voice.

“This is Bob Bowen speaking, Miss Ferguson. I’ll be down in a few minutes. Dickover has made me an offer of ten thousand for your stock, and I want your advice.”

He heard the girl’s voice catch. “Ten—ten thousand!”

“Yep. What I want to know is this: Do you want me to play safe on this stock or do you want me to handle it as I would my own? I warn you, there’s a vast difference between the two! I can’t warn you too seriously.”

She did not reply at once. Bowen waited until waiting grew intolerable.

“Hello! Are you there, Miss Ferguson?”

“Yes. I—I was thinking. Please, Mr. Bowen, handle that stock entirely as if it were your own. I’ll take the chance!”

“Good! Thank Heaven for your courage! I’ll be down presently.”

He had quite forgotten the five thousand which she bore for him.

Bowen returned to Dickover’s rooms in no great haste; talking with Tonopah would take time as well as money. But when he entered, he found Dickover giving his private secretary some instructions. “And rush the papers here!” concluded the magnate. “With witnesses.”

“Well?” Bowen dropped into a chair, as if casually. “Did you get Lyman yet?”

“The boy’s making out the papers now. I’ll buy. What did your lady friend say?”

Bowen felt a trickle of sweat run down his back. The game was won—almost!

“One thing at a time,” he said, laughing. “Let’s clean the Big Bony off the slate, then clean off the Apex Crown.”

“Uhuh. One thing I meant to tell you, Bowen. Keep your eye peeled for Henderson! That fellow is bad medicine when he’s crossed, and I judge by your manner that you have crossed him some this morning.”

“I did, I hope,” Bowen chuckled. The magnate grunted non-committally.

In ten minutes the ownership of the Big Bony group of claims was transferred from Bob Bowen to Dickover. The secretary and witnesses departed. Bowen pocketed the magnate’s check for thirty thousand dollars.

“You lost another thirty on that deal,” said Dickover complacently.

“I’ll clean up fifty with the thirty I got,” retorted Bowen. The other chuckled.

“I’ll gamble that you do, at that! Well, about the Apex Crown—”