“It cost too much to mine and smelt it at present prices. After pouring a good bit of money into the thing, I found that out. The sulfur looked promising, and we went in for that; but that, too, came near taking our last dollar before it made good.” He told the magazine man how he had discovered traces of sulfur in an old crater among the hills, had made tests, and had found that the mineral existed in great quantities and almost pure. But when they went after it, new difficulties were encountered—quicksands. One method after another was tried and found useless, until the experts he had summoned were ready to give up the job. Then, almost in despair, Brainard had experimented with a novel method of extracting the sulfur by pumping steam through one pipe into the earth and taking the solution out by another. It was successful. “It’s a steady yellow stream out of the bowels of the earth—a stream of gold!” The young man sighed with envy. “Better than gold,” Brainard continued. “A thousand per cent better! I wouldn’t dare tell you how much money that yellow stream pours into my pockets every twenty-four hours.” Farson’s eyes gleamed, and he looked covetously at the bulging pockets of the miner’s loose coat. “So you made good,” he said; “and of course you came up here to New York, straight off, to spend your money.” “That’s it,” Brainard assented with a laugh. “It’s a good place to enjoy oneself. What are you going to do?” Brainard looked quizzically at the ex-reporter. “Get some clothes, first. I need ’em, don’t you think?” Farson candidly admitted that he did. “But,” he added, “you don’t seem the sort to blow your money the usual way—chorus-girls, or country places, or yachts, or stock market, or—” Brainard shook his head vigorously at each item of gratification mentioned. “What _are_ you going to do with that yellow stream?” “I have my idea,” Brainard admitted. “That’s what I want to know.” “I’ll tell you, and you can make another article about it, if you like.” The young man leaned forward, all eager attention. Brainard smoked thoughtfully, then began. “You’ve written plays—got one in your pocket this minute, probably.” “You don’t mean you are going to write plays!” Farson said disgustedly. “No, my boy—not now. I tried it once. But I hope to make it possible for you and other young men to write their plays and get them put on the stage. I’m going to build theaters, here and in other cities. I shall found a national society of dramatic art. That’s the way I’m going to blow in the money from the sulfur stream as long as it flows!” “Whew!” The magazine man whistled dubiously. “Another uplift movement for the poor drama?” “Let me explain,” Brainard continued.