“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.”