The optimistic Scribe bites his derisive thumb at such ominous prophecies. Once in a while some rain does fall, and now and then a roar of thunder, or sharp slash of sleet will split the air during our journey through life, but the blue is always above, and the clouds but drifting ships that pass and are gone. In and through them all the warm, cheery sun fights on for joyous light and happy endings, and almost always wins. This time the unexpected took shape in the person of T. Ballantree, from Morfordsburg--a plain, direct, straight-to-the-point kind of a man, whom Jack found in the corridor of the Astor House with his eyes on the clock. “You are very prompt, Mr. Breen,” he said in clear-cut tones, “so am I. What I wanted to see you about is just this: You own some ore property three miles east of the Maryland Mining Company's lay-out. Am I right?” “Yes, you are right,” answered Jack with a comprehensive glance which began at the speaker's black derby hat, traversed his suit of store clothes, and ended in a pair of boots which still showed some traces of yellow clay, as if their wearer had been prospecting the day before. “Are there any encumbrances on the property--any mortgages or liens not yet recorded? I don't mean taxes; I find they have been paid,” continued Ballantree. Jack shifted his seat so he could get a better view of the speaker's face, and said in answer: “Why do you ask?” “Because,” said the man with entire frankness, “we understand that the Maryland Mining Company have an option on it. If that is so, I'll stop where I am. We don't care to buck up against Breen & Co.” “No,” answered Jack, now convinced of the man's sincerity; “no--it's free and clear except for a loan of ten thousand dollars held by a friend, which can be paid off at any time.” Ballantree ducked his head in token of his satisfaction over the statement and asked another question--this time with his eyes straight on Jack. “Is it for sale--now--for money?” It was Jack's turn to focus his gaze. This was the first time any one had asked that question in the memory of the oldest inhabitant. “Well, that depends on what it is wanted for, Mr. Ballantree,” laughed Jack. He had already begun to like the man. “And perhaps, too, on who wants it. Is it for speculation?” Ballantree laughed in return. “No--not a square foot of it. I am the general manager of the Guthrie Steel Company with head-quarters here in New York. We have been looking for mineral up in that section of the State, and struck yours. I might as well tell you that I made the borings myself.” “Are you an expert?” asked Jack. The way people searched his title, examined his tax receipts and rammed hypodermics into his property without permission was, to say the least, amusing. “Been at it thirty years,” replied Ballantree in a tone that settled all doubt on the subject. “It is a low-grade ore, you know,” explained Jack, feeling bound to express his own doubts of its value.