Keith was his slave, a faithful admirer whose eyes fed upon his hero steadily. He had heard the story of this young man's deeds discussed until Dave had come to take on almost mythical proportions. He asked a question in an awed voice. "How did you get this Miller to confess?" The guest exchanged a glance with the host. "We had a talk with him." "Did you--?" "Oh, no! We just asked him if he didn't want to tell us all about it, and it seems he did." "Maybe you touched his better feelin's," suggested Keith, with memories of an hour in Sunday School when his teacher had made a vain appeal to his. His father laughed. "Maybe we did. I noticed he was near blubberin'. I expect it's 'Adios, Señor Miller.' He's got two years more to serve, and after that he'll have another nice long term to serve for robbin' the stage. All I wish is we'd done the job more thorough and sent some friends of his along with him. Well, that's up to Applegate." "I'm glad it is," said Joyce emphatically. "Any news to-day from Jackpot Number Three?" asked the president of that company. "Bob Hart sent in to get some supplies and had a note left for me at the post-office," Miss Joyce mentioned, a trifle annoyed at herself because a blush insisted on flowing into her cheeks. "He says it's the biggest thing he ever saw, but it's going to be awf'ly hard to control. Where _is_ that note? I must have put it somewhere." Emerson's eyes flickered mischief. "Oh, well, never mind about the note. That's private property, I reckon." "I'm sure if I can find it--" "I'll bet my boots you cayn't, though," he teased. "Dad! What will Mr. Sanders think? You know that's nonsense. Bob wrote because I asked him to let me know." "Sure. Why wouldn't the secretary and field superintendent of the Jackpot Company keep the daughter of the president informed? I'll have it read into the minutes of our next board meetin' that it's in his duties to keep you posted." "Oh, well, if you want to talk foolishness," she pouted. "There's somethin' else I'm goin' to have put into the minutes of the next meetin', Dave," Crawford went on. "And that's yore election as treasurer of the company. I want officers around me that I can trust, son." "I don't know anything about finance or about bookkeeping," Dave said. "You'll learn. We'll have a bookkeeper, of course. I want some one for treasurer that's level-haided and knows how to make a quick turn when he has to, some one that uses the gray stuff in his cocoanut. We'll fix a salary when we get goin'. You and Bob are goin' to have the active management of this concern. Cattle's my line, an' I aim to stick to it. Him and you can talk it over and fix yore duties so's they won't conflict. Burns, of course, will run the actual drillin'. He's an A1 man. Don't let him go." Dave was profoundly touched. No man could be kinder to his own son, could show more confidence in him, than Emerson Crawford was to one who had no claims upon him.