At the banquet in the town hall, Peter listened to Rawley’s dazed enthusiasm calmly while he watched the crowd. This was the first banquet which Peter had ever attended--a man confessing to fifty-four years and quoting Socrates!--and he was interested. But Rawley would not let him enjoy himself as he would like; instead, he must tell why and why and why; a tiresome job for Peter. “Oh, I didn’t lack confidence, boy. I wanted your opinion without any influence from me. If I’d told you all I knew, that wouldn’t have helped _me_ any. I wanted to know what _you_ knew about it. Then I compared your ideas with mine. “No, Jess and the old man don’t know what I’m up to. I talked to them, some, after you left. But they can’t see beyond the gold in the river. They’ll be mad, I expect. But we couldn’t go on the way we planned. You can’t fight the government, boy. The old Eagle is a real scrapper. “Yes, Nevada knows I intended to fly a white flag. She’s willing. She sees, as I do, that you were right--” Peter’s neighbor on the other side claimed him then; an engineer who wanted further details of just how Peter had planned to move a mountain and cast it into the river. Two men across the table left off eating and their talk to lean forward and listen, and the man next Rawley was frankly stretching his hearing across and catching as much of Peter’s elucidation as he could. So Rawley was obliged to content himself with his pride in Uncle Peter, who was plainly making an extremely favorable impression on certain governors and high officials. And it amused him secretly to observe Peter’s complete unconcern over his growing popularity and his childlike interest in the commonplace incidents of the banquet. An ambitious reporter slipped up behind Rawley and asked him for the love of Mike to arrange an interview with Cramer. His tone was imploring. “New dope--and oh, boy, it’s a hummer!” he confided in Rawley’s ear. “You know we pencil pushers are just about goofy, trying to get a fresh punch into this thing. This man, Cramer, is worth a million dollars to the project, just for the publicity there is in him. A dam under our noses--oh, _boy_!” “He won’t talk,” Rawley discouraged him. “Taciturn is the word that describes him.” “Taciturn? With that talk he put over this evening? I’ve got every word of it--it’s priceless. Arabian Nights ain’t in it. And believe me, King, it’s going on the wires complete, the minute we get the word to release it.” “Let’s see,” Rawley mused. “You’re an A. P. man, aren’t you? Well, I’ll try and run Peter into a corner for you--but I won’t promise he’ll give you anything.” “You, then! King, you’re wise--I can see it in your left eyebrow. You’ve got some ripping dope on this, and I know it. Say, if you’ll--”