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.