Gregory swore under his breath and for a minute his face looked ugly and formidable. But as he stepped into the bucket and gave the signal he permitted his expression to change to one of grim amusement. Mr. Robinson was one of the brilliant galaxy that guided the legal footsteps of “Amalgamated”; that powerful company, financed by Standard Oil, which owned thirty-one of the mines of Butte openly, and exerted a power in Montana far exceeding that of state or nation. Gregory wore corduroy trousers and coat, and these as well as his face and hands were white with “muck”, a mixture of rock-dust and water which spattered everyone in the vicinity of the ore drills; but he wasted no time to clean up before climbing to his cabin to meet the ambassador from Amalgamated. Mr. Robinson, a portly gentleman, still young, but manifestly the victim of easy fortune, rose from his chair before the stove and greeted his host with beaming smile and extended hand. “My dear Mr. Compton!” he exclaimed. “It is a great pleasure to meet you again. Of course you have forgotten me for I was two grades above you in the High, when you were a little chap----” “What have you come here for? Out with it! I’ve no time to waste. Sit down if you like.” Mr. Robinson colored angrily. He knew little of the man with whom he had come to deal, but had always relied upon his urbanity and Western heartiness to “make a hit.” He knew Mark Blake and, although he had heard, like others, of Gregory Compton’s record at the School of Mines, he had assumed that he was a mere student, and in other respects more or less the same sort of man as his chum. This man looked unlike any he had ever met. He concealed his chagrin, however, and resumed his seat. “Really, Mr. Compton, you are somewhat abrupt----” “Get down to business. What does Amalgamated want?” Mr. Robinson wisely took the cue. “To buy you out.” “How much will they pay?” “How much do you want?” “What do they offer?” “Well, between you and me. I fancy they might go as high as a hundred thousand.” “Tell them to go to hell.” “How much do you want?” “A hundred millions.” “Good God, man, are you mad!” “If you had permitted me to finish. I should have added--in other words, nothing. There isn’t money enough inside of Montana, let alone on top, to buy one acre of this ranch.” “But--you know what most mines are--pockety--yours may peter out any minute.” “All right. I take the chances.” “The history of Butte Hill is unique. There will never be another----” “How do you know?” “It stands to reason----” “Why?” “Oh, Lord, man, if you are indulging in wild dreams----!” “My dreams concern no one but myself. I’m satisfied with my hill and that’s all there is to it.” “I’m afraid not. Look here, you are a fine young fellow with a big future--people talk a lot about you--I don’t want to see you crushed----” “You won’t.”