“But you’d better take your chance while you have it offered to you. I’ve only got to go to Grub Stake and buy,” went on the visitor. “That so? Then shares in the old claim are offered in Grub Stake?” queried Mr. Havens. “Never heard of that before.” “You don’t know everything,” sneered Steve Brant “Old John Morrisy’s never sold his share in the Crayton mine. I can get it and that will give me control.” “No,” said Mr. Havens, quietly shaking his head. “Why not, I’d like to know?” demanded Steve Brant angrily. “Because I’ve got an option on John Morrisy’s holdings—that’s why, Stranger.” “What d’ye mean—option?” “Just what I say. John’s agreed to sell it to me.” “And you tied down here with a broken foot?” cried the other. “I know old John Morrisy. The man who can show him ready cash first will get his share in the old diggings, sure!” “You’re so sure,” sighed Mr. Havens. “Go ahead. You’ll learn.” “You’re bluffing.” “Go ahead. I might as well tell you, though,” said Chet’s father, “that I’ve got my money on the spot and the papers are on the way to Grub Stake right now. I reckon I’ve beat you to it, Stranger.” “Say! you don’t know me,” remarked Steve Brant threateningly. “I’m not so easily beaten.” “And I don’t care whether I beat you or not. I never saw you before,” said Mr. Havens; “and I don’t care to see you again. But take it from me: I’m going to control the old Crayton claim. It won’t be you. Mark that now!” The mine owner had become a little heated. Now he sank back in his chair again, and puffed strongly on his pipe. He appeared to have no further interest in the discussion. Steve Brant turned away from the porch—on which he had not been invited to sit—in plain wrath. He did not bid Mr. Havens good-bye, nor did the latter look after Brant when he walked down the street. Had he done so he could not have heard what the man was saying to himself. He felt that Mr. Havens had the best of him—for the time, at least. And it made him very angry. “Something has ’woke him up. He must know something about that old claim—he knows as well as I do,” muttered Steve Brant. “He’s in communication with old John Morrisy, is he? “By gracious! that’s where those boys were bound for when I saw them ride away this morning. I waited for them to get away first, for I was afraid they might have remembered my being up there with that young redskin. “Ha! I’d like to see what kind of papers they carry. Old John Morrisy is a queer duck—and he can’t read. Pshaw! I ought to be able to get the better of a couple of boys. Now, why not? That Tony knows the trail like a book—Humph! “If I’m not smarter than a couple of boys and a man that’s tied to his piazza like a poodle-dog, I’ll eat my hat,” declared Steve Brant, as he turned the nearest corner below the Havens’ house. Mr. Brant was evidently a man who would bear watching. CHAPTER XI—THE FIRST ADVENTURE