"And hotel clerks," I added irreverently, with something of envy for the general’s talent at finding cause for self-congratulation. General Wilson flushed a little deeper red, and looked at me doubtingly. I hastened to add an expression of complete agreement with the conclusions he had announced. "Well, God bless us," he cried, "I can’t be waiting here all day for Kendrick. I want to talk over that tule land proposition with him, but as he isn’t here I’m going over to talk on the same business with a miserly old curmudgeon named Bolton. As it concerns Kendrick, in a way, maybe you’d like to come along as his representative." And with a commanding gesture General Wilson intimated his desire for my company, and linked arms with me in the affectation of deepest confidence. I had for several days been meditating on the problem of an interview with Peter Bolton, and, accepting General Wilson’s offer of a convoy as a gift of benignant chance, was soon climbing the stair to the curmudgeon’s office to the boom-boom of General Wilson’s gasconades, and wondering how I might surprise the secret of Peter Bolton’s plans. *CHAPTER IX* *PETER BOLTON* Peter Bolton’s office conformed to the first principles of art. It supplied an appropriate frame for Peter Bolton himself. The outer room presented to the eye of the visitor four bare and grimy walls that had once been white, a bare and worn board floor, two kitchen chairs and a rickety desk. There was, however, nothing shrinking or apologetic about this meager display of furnishing. It smacked not of poverty, but of an inclement disposition in its owner. In the inner room the walls and floor were as bare and grimy as those of the outer office, but the furnishing was a little less disregardful of personal comfort, for it held five solid chairs, a solid safe that made a show of bidding defiance to burglars, and a solid desk, behind which sat Peter Bolton himself. The outer office was empty, save for the uninviting chairs and the rickety desk, and General Wilson, with a quick jerk, opened the inner door and bustled into the room. "Ha-ha, Bolton!" he cried, "I catch you with your washee-washee man, eh? That’s right, that’s right. Cleanliness next to godliness, you know--though you can’t always be sure that the Chinese washman is to be recommended on either count. Hey, John, you trot along now. I want to talk to Mr. Bolton." Glancing over General Wilson’s head I saw the thin, sour face of Peter Bolton, and behind the mask of its dry expression I thought I recognized a passing flash of mental disturbance that suggested fear, or even consternation. Then a sardonic smile tightened and drew down the corners of the mouth, and his hard, nasal voice twanged out a grudging word of recognition.