*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 67361 ***

                       Bob Bowen Comes to Town
                         By H. Bedford-Jones




                           I—MINING STOCK.


The fat man squeezed himself into the chair of the smoking-room, eyed
the lean man and the drummer who had stretched out on the cushioned
seat, wiped his beaded brow, and sighed.

“This central California,” he observed squeakily, “is the hottest
place this side of Topheth! Thank Heaven, we get into Frisco
to-night.”

The drummer from San Francisco resented the diminutive and gave him a
casual stare. The lean man said nothing. Then the drummer turned to
the lean man and picked up a thread of conversation which had
apparently been broken by the fat man’s entrance.

“This here ruby silver, now,” he argued. “I’ve heard it ain’t up to
snuff. Ain’t nothin’ in working it, they tell me.”

The lean man smiled. When he smiled, his jaw looked a little leaner
and stronger, and he was quite a likeable chap.

“You can hear ’most anything, especially about ores,” he remarked,
between pulls at his cigar. “But Tonopah was founded on ruby silver,
and the Tonopah mines are not exactly poor properties to own.” His
eyes twinkled, as if at some secret jest.

“But they tell me,” persisted the drummer, “that ruby silver’s got too
much arsenic in it to make development and smelting pay. Besides it
comes in small veins—”

“It has not too much arsenic to make smelting pay—sometimes! It does
not come in small veins—sometimes! Look at the Yellow Jack, the
richest mine over at Tonopah! They busted into ruby silver; last week
a bunch of mining sharks come and look over the outcrop. They wire
east, and their principals pay a cool million and a half cash for the
property. That’s what ruby silver did for the Yellow Jack!”

“How d’you know so much about, it?” demanded the drummer. “You been up
that way yourself, eh?”

“I’m the man who sold out the Yellow Jack.” The lean man smiled again
as he threw back his elbows into the cushions and puffed his cigar.

“Gee!” The drummer stared sidewise at his informant. Very manifestly,
that mention of a million and a half was running in his mind. His eyes
began to bulge under the force of impact. “Gee! Say, are you stringin’
me?”

Carelessly, the lean man reached into his vest pocket and extended a
pasteboard.

“Here’s my card.” The twinkle in his gray eyes deepened a bit. “Bob
Bowen—I guess ’most everybody around Tonopah knows me. I’m going to
Frisco to sell a couple more mines.”

This time, the drummer took no umbrage at the hated word “Frisco.”
Instead, he put out his hand with quick affability.

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Bowen! Here’s my card. Going to the Palace?”

Before the lean man could respond, the fat man leaned forward in his
chair. He stared intently at Bowen, then spoke.

“Do I understand, sir,” he squeaked, “that you are Robert Bowen, and
that you have sold the Yellow Jack mine?”

“You do,” said Bowen, eying him.

“Upon my word!” The ejaculation was one of surprise and was followed
by a chuckle. “My name is Dickover—of New York, Mr. Bowen. If I’m not
mistaken, it was my agent who bought that mine of yours! Am I right?”

Bowen’s gray eyes hardened for a moment, and then they twinkled again
and his lean hand shot forth.

“Well, well!” he exclaimed heartily. “Talk about unadulterated
coincidence! And you’re actually Dickover; _the_ Dickover? You’re the
man who owns half the copper mines in Arizona and two-thirds of
Tonopah?”

“Uhuh. Glad to meet you, Bowen. Going to Frisco, are you?”

The drummer looked from one to the other, agape. And small wonder! The
name of Dickover was known wherever ores were smelted or mining stocks
sold.

Bowen and Dickover gazed at each other, appraisingly. After a moment
they began to discuss mining stocks. The drummer listened attentively,
and after venturing one timid assertion which was promptly quashed by
Dickover, ventured no more. At length the train slowed down, and he
sprang to his feet.

“Gee, I’d plumb forgotten that I had to make a stop!” he said
regretfully, and held out his hand. “Mighty glad to ’ve met you, Mr.
Bowen. And you, Mr. Dickover. Mighty glad! May see you at the Palace
in three-four days. Look me up, won’t you? So-long.”

So, breezily, he swung out of the smoking-room and from the train.
Bowen carelessly watched him depart, then sat up with quickening
interest.

“Gone into the telegraph office—”

The great magnate broke in with a falsetto chuckle.

“Sure! You can gamble that he knows one or two newspaper men in
Frisco. He’s tipping ’em off that we’re on the Limited. Get our names
in the paper.”

Bowen looked a trifle startled. “Oh, hell!” he uttered disgustedly.

The two smoked in silence, no one else entering their compartment.
Slowly the train pulled out and with gathering speed slipped westward.
The fat man leaned forward again, his eyes on Bowen. Mirth shook his
ponderous frame.

“Say!” he uttered. “I happen to know about that Yellow Jack mine. It
was sold to Dickover of New York, all right; but it was sold by a big
Swede named Olafson. No offense, pardner—but you’re some liar! What
made you string that poor boob?”

Bowen laughed unassumedly, and the fat man laughed in sympathy with
him.

“He asked too many questions—too curious. Anyway, I told him the exact
truth!”

“Come on, come on!” squeaked the fat man scornfully. “I’m no chicken.
You can’t put it over _me_, young man!”

“I’m not trying to,” said Bowen coolly, his eyes twinkling. “It’s a
matter of record that I sold the Yellow Jack mine. Only, as it
happens, I sold it to Olafson two years ago, before we dreamed there
was any ruby ore in that locality! And I sold it for five hundred
dollars. Now who’s the boob? Me, Bob Bowen! Don’t hold back, stranger;
when old Olafson sold out for a million and a half, I quit Tonopah for
good.”

The fat man chuckled. The chuckle deepened into a billowing laugh that
shook his broad frame, and the laugh became a roar of mirth. Bowen
grinned wrily.

“Laugh your fool head off—I deserve it!” he went on. “Still, I’ll hand
it to you at that. You with your talk of Dickover! That’s what made
our late friend really sit up and rubber. Did you notice what reverent
attention he paid to your fool dissertation on curb stocks? I’ll bet a
nickel he’ll invest twenty dollars or so in Big Daisy or Apex Crown on
the strength of your remarks.”

The fat man choked over his cigar, and flung it away.

“Didn’t you think much of my spiel?” he demanded. “Why, I thought I
knew a little—”

“Huh!” grunted Bowen, yet no whit unpleasantly. “Stranger, if you
really want to _learn_ a little about curb stocks, you go and float
around the mining country a bit. If I took your pointers on stocks,
I’d be in a poorhouse next month!”

“Then you’re a broker?”

“No. Not by a long sight!” snapped Bowen. “I play a straight game.”

“No offense.” The fat man chuckled again. “You’re really going to sell
a couple of mines in Frisco? Or was that bunk, too?”

“No, that was straight enough; not the selling part, maybe, but the
trying.” Bowen sighed a little, and older lines showed in his lean
face. “I’ve got two properties close in to the Yellow Jack.”

“Why didn’t you try selling them to Dickover’s agent?”

“Him!” Bowen grunted in disgust. “Stranger, that guy Henderson, just
between you and me, is crooked as hell! Know what he did? Made Olafson
give him fifty thousand dollars before he’d approve the sale! I sure
do feel sorry for old man Dickover; some day that confidential agent,
Henderson, is going to get into him good and deep, believe me!”

The fat man carefully extracted two fat, gold-banded, amazing cigars
from a case, and extended one to Bowen.

“Smoke. You seem to be sore on that agent.”

“Not me, stranger. You can ask anybody on the ground.”

“H-m! Going to the Palace, I suppose? Best way to sell mines is to put
up at the best place and make a splurge. But you know that, I guess.”

“I didn’t; but maybe I’ll take your advice. It listens good. No, don’t
get the notion that I’m sore on the Dickover crowd. My ground isn’t
the sort they’re after. It’s low-grade ore and heaps of it. I’ll get
after the low-graders in Frisco, see?”

The fat man nodded knowingly. “What are your properties?”

“The Sunburst and the Golden Lode.”

For a space the two men smoked in silence. Bowen enjoyed his cigar; it
had been long months since he had smoked a cigar whose aroma even
approached this. Evidently the fat man was no pauper.

The word struck bitterness into Bowen. Pauper! He himself had just
thirty dollars to his name. He would look fine, going to the Palace!
Yet, why not? He could get by with it and let the bill run, on his
appearance; if he sold his two mines, or either of them, everything
would be fine.

And if not—well, something would turn up.

“Yep,” he said abruptly, ending his thoughts in speech before he could
check the impulse, “I guess that was good advice. I’ll go to the
Palace.”

The fat man eyed him shrewdly, but Bowen was again lost in frowning
thought.

At eight that evening the Limited was “in.” Bowen took a taxi up to
the Palace. When he stepped up to the register of the big Market
Street hostelry, he found his way blocked by the bulky figure of the
fat man, who had just finished signing. The fat man turned from the
desk, saw Bowen, and took him by the arm.

“Say!” he exclaimed. “Just a minute, Bowen. I want to thank you, old
man, for that tip about my agent. I’ll sure bear it in mind. You’re
all right!”

Slapping Bowen on the shoulder, he departed after an obsequious
bellhop. For a moment Bob Bowen did not understand that speech; but as
he leaned over the register and saw the signature of the fat man, he
gulped in sudden, stark amazement.

Great glory! The fat man _was_ Dickover, after all!




                   II—CALLED IN FOR CONSULTATION.


That evident recognition, that low murmur of confidential speech, that
friendly slap on the shoulder, turned the trick. This Robert Bowen of
Tonopah was manifestly known to the great Dickover; was palpably a
friend of the great Dickover; was clearly and openly a confidant of
the great Dickover!

Realizing this, Bowen grinned to himself as the desk clerk doffed all
haughtiness and became cordially human. He realized it with greater
emphasis as he turned from the desk and found a brisk young man at his
elbow with extended card.

“Mr. Bowen? I’m Harkness of the _Chronicle_. May I have two minutes of
your time?”

Bowen affected to eye the young man in consideration.

Publicity! Well, why not? It might affect untold wonders for him. He
was arriving in San Francisco unknown and unknowing. He had ore
samples and assayers’ reports galore in his grip; but these might do
him no good unless he got the impetus he needed. And publicity would
give it to him. At least, publicity could not hurt him!

“Sure,” he said, nodding toward the parlors. “Come along and sit
down.”

A moment later the two men pulled chairs together and relaxed
comfortably.

“Shoot,” commanded Bowen laconically. The reporter grinned.

“I got a tip that you sold the Yellow Jack mine to Dickover for a
million and—”

“Pause right there, Harkness!” Bowen lifted his hand, but smiled in
his whimsical, likable fashion. “You’ve got it wrong. Dickover has
just bought the Yellow Jack, but not from me. Don’t start me off with
a false report like that, for the love of Mike!”

“Whew! Good thing you put me wise,” said Harkness frankly. “Well, do
you mind telling me what mine you did sell to Dickover?”

Bowen gazed at him again, heavy-lidded. Was this rank deception? He
decided that it was not. There was nothing crooked about it. Besides,
Dickover had certainly known just how his words and manner to Bowen
would be seen and recognized; Dickover had tried to do him a good
turn. He was justified in taking advantage of the situation.

“Frankly, Harkness,” said Bowen slowly, “I don’t want to name any
names. I’m here to try and dispose of some low-grade properties; rich
in ore, but not in rich ore. Maybe you know that the Dickover people
touch nothing but pretty rich propositions in the silver field.”

“Sure, I understand.” Harkness nodded assent. “But I heard a rumor
that Dickover was here for the purpose of opening up a low-grade
system; somebody had invented a means of smelting—”

“Nothing to it,” asserted Bowen. “At least, I was talking about it
with Dickover on the train, and he didn’t say—”

He checked himself abruptly. He had no business talking like this.
Harkness, however, came to his feet as if unwilling to detain the
magnate further.

“Much obliged for your time, Mr. Bowen; mighty good of you, I’m sure!
No special news from Tonopah way? Nothing on the inside that you’d
pass along—”

“Oh, sure!” Bowen grinned. “The Yellow Jack was sold to Dickover by a
Swede named Olafson. I sold the mine to Olafson two years ago—for five
hundred beans!”

Harkness whistled. “Say—but you wouldn’t let me use that, of course.”

“Go ahead. I should worry!” Bowen chuckled. “The joke is on me, and
everybody up at Tonopah knows it. Only don’t make me out a fool,
Harkness; two years ago there was no ruby vein known in that
property.”

“Trust me! Thanks, a thousand times.”

Bowen went to his room, and sighed at the luxury of it. After that
talk with the mining reporter, he had almost believed in his own
assured wealth.

When he sought the “hotel personals” in the next morning’s
_Chronicle_, he smiled!

    With Mr. Dickover, on the Overland, arrived Mr. Robert
    Bowen, of Tonopah, who, it is rumored, has recently
    disposed of large holdings in the Dickover interests. Mr.
    Bowen is heavily interested in low-grade silver properties
    near Tonopah.

And upon the mining page were separate stories; one concerning the
Yellow Jack, the other, by the authority of Dickover himself, flatly
contradicting the rumor that the Dickover interests had anything to do
with low-grade silver ores.

“If nobody calls my little bluff, all right!” thought Bowen. “Now for
work.”

Having a list of every one who might put capital into his holdings,
Bowen engaged a car by the day and set forth.

At four that afternoon, with ten dollars left in his pocket and no
hope left in his soul, Bob Bowen of Tonopah reentered his room at the
hotel and threw down his grip.

He had covered everybody, even to those in whom he had looked for no
interest. And always the same story: courtesy, a good reception,
growing caution, flat refusal. It seemed that nobody in San Francisco
would put a cent into low-grade silver. The Arizona crash had scared
every investor away from mines for the next six months.

Bowen swore savagely to himself. Then, at the jingle of the telephone
bell, he stumbled across the room to the instrument.

“Mr. Bowen? A party has called you three times since this morning.
Left the number: Mission 34852. Do you wish to call them?”

“If you please.”

Bowen hung up. Sudden hope was reborn within him for a brief moment.
Who was so infernally anxious to see him? Who but some one to whom he
had talked that morning—some one who wanted him to return—some one who
now wanted to invest!

The telephone jingled again.

“Mr. Bowen?” To his intense disappointment, a feminine voice impinged
upon his ear. Then his feeling changed. It was a nice voice and he
liked it. It held a softly appealing note. He imagined that it held a
trace of tears.

“Mr. Bowen, I’m a stranger to you; my name is Alice Ferguson. I used
to be a stenographer for your friend Judge Lyman in Tonopah. In this
morning’s paper I saw that you were here, and I wondered if I might
see you for five minutes on a matter of business. It—it is about some
stock in Apex Crown, and it means everything to me; and if I could
possibly impose on you to the extent of asking your advice—”

“My dear Miss Ferguson,” exclaimed Bowen, warmth in his voice, “I
remember you very well indeed, although I never met you formally.
Sure, I’ll be only too glad to do anything in my power. Where are you
now?”

“In my office at the Crothers Building. I’ll come over—”

“Not a bit of it! I’ll be there in five minutes. Good-by!”

Bob Bowen remembered Judge Lyman’s stenographer as a girl not
particularly striking, but looking very feminine, capable, and as
level-headed as a girl could be. He seized his hat and sought the
quickest way to the Crothers Building.

As he strode along, his mind was busy—very busy. Apex Crown! That was
a small producing mine over in the Tonopah district; like his own
futures, Apex Crown was low-grade ore and barely paid expenses. It had
been scraping alone for about three years with the stock down to five
cents and less.

But on the train, the great Dickover had said to—buy Apex Crown!

Had Dickover been uttering a grim jest, thinking that the drummer and
Bowen would rush to operate on his tip? Was Apex Crown worthless? And
what was Alice Ferguson’s interest in this stock, this stock which on
the curb market was unsought and unbought?

Bob Bowen reached the Crothers Building. The elevator-man informed him
that Miss Ferguson was a public stenographer. Two minutes later he was
shaking hands with her.

She was as he remembered her—dark, lithe, rather grave-eyed just at
present but with merriment latent in her face; and altogether
feminine. Bowen would have been amazed had he realized how he himself
was smiling as he seldom smiled.

“I’ve often heard Judge Lyman say that you were the squarest man he
knew, Mr. Bowen,” said the girl frankly, and smiled as Bowen stammered
dissent. “Nonsense! That is why I called on you. I’m up against it and
don’t know what I should do.”

“Neither do I,” returned Bowen cheerfully. “What’s the trouble?”

“Well, my father was a business man in Tonopah. He died three years
ago, leaving me alone. After his death, it developed that he had sunk
all his money in Apex Crown stock; this was in the early days, you
know. The stock looked valuable, but there was no immediate demand for
it. Then gradually it went down, and stayed down—”

“How much stock?” demanded Bowen.

“Ten thousand shares.”

“Whew! Say, that was a shame! A shame—”

“No. My father had good judgment as a rule,” was the grave rebuke, and
Bowen fell silent. The girl pursued her subject coolly. “This morning
a broker looked me up and made me an offer of ten cents a share for
the stock. I refused him, and he went up to twenty cents—”

“He—what?” broke out Bowen. “Twenty cents?”

“Yes. I told him that I’d give him my answer to-morrow. The paper said
that you were largely interested in low-grade ores, and I thought you
might know something about this Apex Crown. If it’s really worth
anything, of course I don’t want to throw it away—”

“Hold on a minute!” Bowen drew forth an afternoon paper which he had
bought and had stuffed into his overcoat pocket without reading. “I
don’t know anything definite, but if anything has broken loose—ah!
Here we are! Look at this!”

Excitedly he laid on the desk before her the opened paper. His finger
pointed to an obscure paragraph—a list of curb stocks. The first stock
was Apex Crown. Five thousand shares had changed hands, at a price of
five cents, before the paper had gone to press.

“Now, see here, Miss Ferguson!” exclaimed Bowen. “Yesterday on the
train, I met Mr. Dickover; the big plunger, you know! He said to buy
Apex Crown. Naturally, I thought he was handing me a stinger by way of
a joke. But here five thousand shares have changed hands to-day! Do
you realize that for the last year or two nobody would have that stock
at any figure? And here a broker comes to you with an offer for your
block—”

They stared at each other, wordless. A touch of crimson crept into the
girl’s cheeks. Their eyes exchanged the same message of comprehension,
of surmise.

“You think,” said the girl suddenly, “that Dickover is taking control
of Apex Crown?”

Bowen was silent for so long that the silence became painful.

“No,” he returned at last. “No. I _don’t_ think he is. My cool
judgment says he is not. But what’s judgment anyhow? You hang on to
that stock, Miss Ferguson!”

She flushed a little, but her eyes dwelt on his. “I—I need the money
it would bring at twenty cents,” she faltered. “And yet—look here, Mr.
Bowen! I suppose you’re a very busy man and I have no right to ask
it—”

“I’m not busy,” said Bowen bitterly. “I’m on a vacation. I’ll do
anything you ask.”

“I was wondering if—if you would let me indorse the stock over to you,
and then you could act as you think best. Either sell it, or bargain
for a higher figure—”

She paused, her grave eyes intent upon his lean-muscled face.

“If it’s too much to ask of you,” she went on, “please say so. I don’t
want to make you trouble or to impose on you, Mr. Bowen; you’re been
altogether too good in wasting this much of your time on me—”

“Wasting it? Great Jehu! I was just kicking myself for wasting so much
time in not knowing you—I mean,” he added confusedly, “for not having
wasted a little time in the past—no, I don’t mean that either. Well,
if you’re willing to trust me, I’ll do my best in the matter! Where’s
the stock?”

“I have the certificates here,” and the girl turned to the desk, but
not quickly enough to hide the new tide of crimson that had welled
into her face. It was not hard for any young lady to see that Bob
Bowen of Tonopah was flustered. And Bob Bowen, as this young lady knew
very well, had the reputation of never being flustered by anything or
any one.

Why should she not blush, at such an unspoken compliment?




                          III—A QUICK SALE.


On the following morning Bob Bowen did not at once leap up and dress,
nor did he disturb the morning paper. Instead, he lay quiet and
frowned at the ceiling.

“No doubt at all about it,” he reflected. “She never said a word about
it, of course. She’s not that kind. Just the same, it was there. It
was in her eyes. Fear! She was afraid of something. That’s why she
gave me that stock in trust.”

Instinct told him that he was right. Instinct had warned him from his
first sight of Alice Ferguson that she was afraid of something. She
had appealed to him for advice, yes; but fear had driven her further
than she had first meant to go. Bowen had seen that hidden fear ere
this, but not in the eye of a woman. It angered him.

What the devil was she afraid of? Rather—of whom? The answer was to
Bowen quite obvious. Bowen had no use for brokers anyway. That hound
of a broker who had visited her, had made some kind of threats, or had
said something which put fear into her. Bowen swore to himself and
looked at the time. It was seven thirty.

“I’ll do it,” he muttered, and opened his paper to the mining and
stock page.

Instead of an obscure paragraph, he found that Apex Crown had leaped
into prominence. The reasons, however, were entirely unknown. On the
previous day some eight thousand shares had changed hands in San
Francisco, and the price had closed at five cents bid, none offered.

In Los Angeles, however, things were different. Southern California
was the “boob” end of the State, where people speculated with penny
stocks. Here a great deal of Apex Crown had been unloaded in past
years, and yesterday had wakened the moribund stock. Here the price
had closed at five and a half. Twelve thousand shares had been quietly
picked up at two and three cents before the market had discovered the
activity.

“Somebody’s got agents at work, all right,” said Bowen grimly. “And
they offered the little girl as high as twenty! Wonder if Apex Crown
broke into ruby ore? No, that’s not likely over on those holdings.
Something’s going on secretly.”

At that moment the telephone jingled.

“Yep, this is Bowen speaking. Who? Say it again. Oh, Dickover! Thought
you were out of town—”

“I was,” returned the squeaky voice of the fat man. “Now I’m back. And
I want to see you right now. I’m coming up to your room.”

“Come ahead.”

Bowen struggled into his clothes hurriedly, wondering why Dickover was
seeking him. After that ten-thousand-share block? No, Dickover wasn’t
buying low-grade stuff.

Five minutes later the fat man entered the room, puffing a little and
eying Bowen with angry suspicion. He refused to sit down.

“See here!” he broke out suddenly.

“When I slipped you a tip to take a flier in Apex Crown I didn’t mean
for you to jump into the market with both feet! Confound you, Bowen,
what’s back of this? Why are you buying stock all over California?”

Bowen’s eyes twinkled as he surveyed his visitor.

“Guess you’re on the wrong track, Dickover,” he drawled. “When you
told me about Apex Crown, I figured you were handing me a bum steer. I
haven’t bought a share of the stuff. Straight!”

“What? You mean it?” Dickover said.

Bowen laughed easily. “I’ll prove it. I haven’t ten dollars to my
name, and if the hotel wanted me to pay my bill I’d have to work it
out in jail. I’d look fine going around buying stock, I would!”

There was no doubting his words. Dickover mopped his round face.

“Damn it!” he said. “Who’s doing it?”

“How much is it worth to you to know? I can tell you before ten
o’clock.”

“You can? What d’ you know about it?”

“A friend of mine holds a block of ten thousand shares. Was offered
twenty cents for it yesterday. Asked my advice, then transferred the
stock to me to be held or sold on my judgment.”

“Ten thousand shares, eh?” Dickover’s eyes narrowed. “Give you
thirty.”

“I’m not selling. Do you want to know who’s buying, or don’t you? How
much for my information? I’ll find out who wants this block—if you
offer enough. I owe a bill here.”

Dickover grunted. Then he emitted a falsetto chuckle.

“Five hundred. Waiting for you at ten o’clock.”

“And your interest in the property?”

Dickover grunted, turned, and left the room.

Bob Bowen hastened down to breakfast. He had learned that the magnate
was keenly interested in Apex Crown—wanted to buy it himself. Why? The
only plausible explanation was that Apex Crown had broken into a rich
lode, and from his knowledge of the place Bowen thought this unlikely.

At eight forty-five Bowen was striding toward the Crothers Building.
He had plenty to puzzle him, but refused to let himself be puzzled. He
needed that five hundred dollars and needed it very much.

He went straight to Miss Ferguson’s office, and found her just
arrived. She greeted him with patent surprise, but with a smile that
left no doubt of his welcome.

“Has that broker been here yet?” demanded Bowen bluntly.

“That broker? Oh, no! He didn’t say what time he’d be here for his
answer.”

“He didn’t need to. I figure that nine o’clock will fetch him, and if
you don’t mind, I want to sit around on the chance.”

The girl looked away from him a moment, looked at the window,
frowningly.

“Of course I don’t mind,” she said at last. “Only—I don’t want you to
lose your temper with him—”

Bowen laughed frankly, a boyish laugh that was good to hear on his
lips.

“I never had any temper,” he said. “I’m the mildest little fellow you
ever did see, Miss Ferguson! Honest. I’m a business man. Now, suppose
you sit down and let me dictate a letter to Judge Lyman. I don’t mean
to send it, but I mean your broker friend to hear me dictating. When
he comes in, nod and smile and tell him to wait.”

The girl sat down before her machine and slipped a sheet of paper into
the roll.

“All ready?” asked Bowen. “Then shoot!”

    “My dear Judge:

    “I’m here in the big town and having the time of my life.
    Them are the exact words. I yesterday met your erstwhile
    stenographer, Miss Ferguson, who has an office of her own
    and deserves it. I don’t know of any one I’d sooner have met—”

Bowen paused, meeting the girl’s eyes on his. “That’s all right,” he
said hurriedly. “I’m writing the judge. Confidential letter. Go
ahead!”

Smiling a little, the girl leaned forward. At that instant, however,
the office door opened and a man appeared framed in the opening. Bowen
gave him a casual glance. Miss Ferguson looked up and smiled—a bit
frostily.

“I’ll be through this letter in a moment,” she said, “and shall be at
liberty then. Just take a chair, please. Yes, Mr. Bowen?”

“Paragraph,” said Bowen, now staring past her at the window. He was
conscious that the stranger had taken a chair. “You got that property
location all straight now?”

Miss Ferguson glanced up quickly, caught Bowen’s vacant expression,
and smothered the surprise in her eyes. “Yes,” she said. “All ready.”

Bowen proceeded with his dictation, apparently ignoring the listener.

    “For these two holdings of mine—the Sunburst and the
    Golden Lode—I want more money than has been offered me as
    yet. They are, of course, low-grade ore, and if I can get
    rid of them at a reasonable figure, I shall do so at once.

    “However, I have an appointment with Mr. Dickover at ten
    o’clock, and have good reason to believe—”

There came a sudden interruption—from the stranger.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, stepping forward. “Of course I couldn’t
help overhearing your dictation, sir. May I ask if you are Mr. Robert
Bowen of Tonopah?”

Bowen gave him a slow stare. “I am.”

“By George! It’s lucky I met you, then. I arrived from Tonopah myself
a couple of days ago, and have been trying to connect with you. My
name’s Henderson. While at Tonopah I looked over your holdings, among
others; and if you’d consider an offer on them—”

Bowen drew a cigar from his pocket, bit off the end, and lighted it.
He surveyed Henderson with indecision.

“I don’t know you, Mr. Henderson,” he observed coolly. “I don’t want
to sell those two properties, but I happen to need cash—in a hurry. My
samples and assayers’ reports are at the hotel—”

“I remember the properties very well,” broke in Henderson. “I know you
by reputation, and I know your ground by personal examination.
Frankly, Mr. Bowen, I’m bucking the Dickover interests in a certain
direction. If you’ll give me an option—”

“Nothing doing!” snapped Bowen with finality. “Dickover is talking
cold cash. Of course my ore is nothing wonderful—”

Henderson produced a check-book. “I’ll give you a check for five
thousand to cover both claims,” he said quickly. “Not a cent more. Yes
or no?”

“Now, I like your way of doing business!” said Bowen cordially.
“That’s what I call a man’s way. Five thousand wins. Got any legal
forms around, Miss Ferguson? Are you a notary?”

“I have and I am,” said the girl quietly.

Twenty minutes later, with a witness called in from next door,
Henderson was the owner of the Sunburst and Golden Lode claims. Bowen
picked up the check for five thousand and handed it to Miss Ferguson.

“I don’t know you, Henderson,” he said quietly, “and I need cash
badly. Further, I have an engagement in half an hour with Dickover and
this must be settled one way or the other. So, Miss Ferguson, kindly
step around the corner to the bank and cash this check for me. Good
thing you deal with a local bank, Henderson.”

“I’ll go right with the young lady,” spoke up Henderson. “I can
facilitate the cashing of the check, perhaps.”

“No,” said Bowen, his gray eyes suddenly icy. “No. You stay here,
Henderson. I want to have a little private conversation with you.”

Henderson looked at him hard. Bowen’s tone had not been nice; but
then, Bowen seemed to be on the inside, and private conversation was
an alluring bait.

“Well—” he hesitated.

“You’d better stay,” said Bowen calmly. Then he rose and stepped
outside the door as Miss Ferguson left. He closed the door again and
spoke to the girl in a low voice.

“Cash that check, then run up to the Palace and wait for me, will you?
Please!”

The girl nodded. Her eyes sought his with a mischievous gleam. “You
won’t hurt him?”

“Hurt him? Great Jehu! I should say not! Why, he’s Dickover’s
confidential agent!”




                       IV—BOWEN HOLDS THE ACE.


Bob Bowen reentered the office, closed the door, set his chair against
it, and sat down. Then he regarded the surprised and frowning
“broker.”

Mr. Henderson was a man to be seen once and remembered. He had a large
nose, thin slits of black hawk-eyes, shaggy black brows, and a thin
red line of mouth under a closed-clipped mustache. An able man, a
forceful man, an unscrupulous man, this confidential agent of the
magnate Dickover! Bowen, however, did not appear to be much impressed.

“You wonder why I’m sitting against the door, Mr. Henderson?” he
drawled, chewing at his cigar. “For the obvious reason. To keep you
from getting out.”

Henderson stiffened. He was startled and taken aback. But Bowen
continued his drawl without observing the agitation of the impeccably
dressed agent.

“There’s silver,” he ruminated, “and silver. Bar-silver used to be
forty-seven; now it’s over ninety and still climbing. A low-grade ore
that cost eight dollars a ton to produce a few months ago and gave
back eight dollars, was no good. Now, however, it gives back eight
dollars’ profit and is a paying proposition. Those claims I sold you
are that kind.

“Some day, and I guess it isn’t very far off, folks are going to
discover a chemical process that will take a zinc-silver ore and
separate the zinc and the silver. An ore of that kind to-day, isn’t
worth a tinker’s dam. If that chemical process is discovered, it will
be worth millions. And tucked up in my sleeve I’ve got a property just
like that.”

Henderson rose impressively.

“See here, Bowen,” he observed, “I don’t see what you’re driving at,
but if you mean that I can’t leave this room—”

“You can leave it pretty quick,” drawled Bowen. “But remember one
thing! I’d like nothing better than to mix it with you! I’m just
itching to hold you in a corner and pound off that big nose of yours;
so don’t start anything unless you want me to finish it.”

“What do you mean talking to me like that?” snarled Henderson angrily.
“A moment ago you sold me two claims, and now—”

“And now, having concluded business before pleasure, I’m talking. Miss
Ferguson has transferred her block of Apex Crown to me.”

Henderson’s eyes narrowed. He started to speak, and bit back the
words.

“That’s right, don’t get hasty,” and Bowen grinned exasperatingly.
“Took you by surprise, did it? Thought I didn’t know you, eh? Well, I
had sort of figured out that you might be you, and when you stepped in
the door I knew it _was_ you. Picking up low-grade silver properties,
are you? I don’t suppose that by any stretch of friendship you’d tell
me why you’re picking them up?”

Henderson’s face went livid with anger.

“So you cut in ahead of me!” he rasped. “You got that little fool of a
girl to hand over the stock—”

“Just one minute, Henderson!” Bowen lifted his hand. “I’ve got a
terrible temper. It doesn’t work very hard, not every day; but to hear
names and epithets applied to honest women is something that sets it
on a hair-trigger. Now, if I were you, Henderson, I’d just speak names
and leave out the adjectives. Do you get me? Get me right off the
jump?”

Henderson swallowed hard. It was plain to see that he was seething
internally. But he knew men; that was his business. He looked into
Bowen’s gray eyes, and controlled himself.

“What do you want?” he said slowly, his voice low and tense. “What are
you driving at? Trying to force a bigger price for that stock out of
me?”

“Nope,” returned Bowen cheerfully. “But it isn’t nice for a big man
like you to come in here and try to threaten and browbeat a girl into
giving away all she’s got in the world. It’s going to get you badly
beaten up one of these days. However, now that you’re dealing with me
you might prove reasonable. How much will you give for that Apex
Crown?”

“Thirty,” growled Henderson.

“Buyin’ for Dickover or yourself?” asked Bowen softly.

The agent uttered a lurid curse. Bowen rose and kicked away his chair,
and opened the door.

“I thought so,” he remarked cheerfully. “Well, I guess that check’s
cashed, so I’ll mosey along. You needn’t wait here for Miss Ferguson;
she won’t be back for quite a spell. And don’t come down in my
elevator; wait till I’m out of the way. And say—when you do come, shut
the door after you, will you? So-long.”

Bowen closed the door softly and strode off to the elevator. On the
way down, he glanced at his watch. It was nine fifty.

“Lots of time,” he thought. “I’ll see Dickover, then meet the little
lady.”

At two minutes before the hour he inquired at the desk for Dickover,
and was sent up to the latter’s suite. He found Dickover declaiming to
a private secretary, who admitted him and then retired discreetly. Bob
Bowen dropped into a chair beside Dickover’s table and accepted the
cigar shoved at him.

“I like your cigars,” he observed pleasantly. “The flavor is a little
strong for my taste, but it’s real tobacco. And then the label is
pretty. Don’t know when I’ve ever seen a prettier one—”

“Confound you!” snapped the fat man. “What d’ you know?”

“Well, I’m thirty years old, pretty near, and you’d be surprised to
find how much I’ve learned in the last decade of that time! Experience
is—”

“Damn your experience!” exploded Dickover. “Do you know who’s buying
Apex Crown?”

“Of course. Don’t you?”

For answer, Dickover seized a check from the table and held it out. It
was for five hundred dollars.

“Thanks.” Bowen stuffed it carelessly into his pocket. “Since seeing
you this morning I’ve become fairly rich, and this will add a trifle
to the pile. Your agent, Henderson, is the man after Apex Crown. Just
offered thirty for the stock I hold.”

The fat features of Dickover purpled with anger. But he suppressed his
emotion, drew another cigar from his pocket, and lighted it.

“I rather suspected it, Bowen,” he squeaked more calmly. “Of course
you didn’t sell him the stock?”

“No. I’ll sell it to you if you want it.”

“Huh! How much you want?”

“Five dollars a share.”

Dickover abandoned the subject, after an apoplectic choke.

“Tell you what, Bowen; that tip of yours sent me up to Tonopah in a
hurry. I looked up Henderson and fired him—fired him good and hard.
The confounded crook! Now I need another man to take his place. A man
I can trust, and a man who can be trusted. Ten thousand a year if the
man makes good.”

“Too bad you didn’t look around at Tonopah,” said Bowen innocently. “I
know heaps of good men up that way. You should have gone to Judge
Lyman or Tom Jerkens or some of those men and had ’em pick you out a
nice responsible party for that job. They know everybody up there.
Where do you get these cigars? Think I’ll buy me a box.”

Dickover smoked for a moment in silence. Then he laughed.

“I did snoop around up there, Bowen,” he remarked at last. “What kind
of a cuss are you? This morning you couldn’t pay your hotel bill; and
now you turn down a ten-thousand-dollar job!”

Bob Bowen sighed.

“Well, I do say that it’s tempting. It’s just that, Dickover. But now
I’ve got responsibilities, such as that Apex Crown stock.”

“Huh! Well, you know those mines you told me about—the Sunburst and
the Golden Lode? I looked ’em up in Tonopah. How much you want for ’em
both?”

Bowen looked up, genuinely startled. “You want to _buy_?”

“Uhuh. If the price is right.”

Bowen grinned. “Say, this is pretty rich! Listen here. An hour ago I
was talking with Henderson, and talking soft. Somehow he got the
notion that you were waiting here to buy those two claims off me.
Savvy? He jumps into the breach with five thousand, which is now mine.
The claims are his—”

Dickover purpled with indignation.

“You sold out to him; that dirty yellow dog? What the jumping devils
do you mean by it? Why didn’t you sell to me—”

“Now, you just pour some ice-water over your scalp and cool off.”
Bowen’s long, lean forefinger shot out at him. “How the jumping devils
did I know you wanted to buy those claims? How did I know you wanted
_any_ low-grade stuff? In yesterday’s paper you said you did _not_
want it—you’ve never touched it before—”

Dickover waved his hand in helpless resignation.

“Oh, shut up, Bowen! Let me think, will you?”

For a space the two men smoked in silence. Dickover’s fat features
were tensed in frowning thought. To Bowen but one thing was patent:
the magnate was now after low-grade silver ores. If he had not sold
those two claims to Henderson in such a hurry! He had certainly been
hoist with his own petard that time!

The thought made him chuckle. At the sound, Dickover began to speak
slowly.

“Bowen, you say you want five dollars for that Apex Crown? Now, I’ll
speak frankly. Apex Crown will be worth five dollars—but not for a few
years. For the past week my men have been secretly buying it in at two
cents; and now I want that block of yours. That or nothing! I’ll offer
you par, one dollar, for that stock. If you refuse, I’ll wash my hands
of the whole mess and throw what I’ve bought on the market at the
present price. Speak quick! If I take the mine, it goes up in value.
If I don’t take it, it’s dead.”

Bowen stared at his cigar.

He did not doubt that Dickover was in earnest. And suddenly a light
broke upon him. It was vague and foggy, but it was light.

“See here!” He leaned forward earnestly. “I’ll put this Apex Crown
offer up to my friend—she’s a lady. I’ll go to my own room and call
her up. In the mean time, you get Tonopah over long-distance. Anybody
there you’d trust down to the ground?”

Dickover, eying him, nodded. “Judge Lyman is my local attorney there
and is one of the best men I know in the world.”

“That goes for me. Well, you want low-grade ores of big body and
zinc-silver mixture; same as the Apex Crown and Sunburst and Golden
Lode, eh? All right. Now, I’ve had an ace up my sleeve for some years.
I’ve called it the Big Bony, and it’s located down Rhyolite way. The
ore runs zinc-silver strong, just like these others; only Big Bony has
it in large quantities.

“Until about ten minutes ago, Dickover, that group of claims was not
worth a cuss. To you, if my guess is right, it’s now worth all the
money I need in my business—say thirty thousand dollars. Judge Lyman
knows all about it; has had assayers report on it, has visited the
place himself with me, and owns a bunch of claims the other side of
it. You call up Lyman before I come back.”

“Yes?” prompted Dickover as Bowen paused. The magnate was keen-eyed,
attentive.

“That ore, I believe, is what you want. It’s really worth a big bunch
more than thirty thousand; but I’m needing thirty thousand bad, right
now! Will you buy it at that?”

Dickover reached for the desk telephone. “I’ll talk to Lyman. His word
is good for all the money I own.”

“Good! I’ll be back pretty soon.”

Bob Bowen sought his own room and requested the office to page Miss
Ferguson, who was somewhere about the parlors.

While waiting, he strode up and down savagely. Ten thousand dollars
meant a fortune to this girl! If the offer was rejected, Dickover
would carry out his word and flood the market with Apex Crown. Sooner
than make Henderson rich, he would smash Apex Crown and Henderson
together.

The telephone jingled. Bowen caught up the receiver and heard Miss
Ferguson’s voice.

“This is Bob Bowen speaking, Miss Ferguson. I’ll be down in a few
minutes. Dickover has made me an offer of ten thousand for your stock,
and I want your advice.”

He heard the girl’s voice catch. “Ten—ten thousand!”

“Yep. What I want to know is this: Do you want me to play safe on this
stock or do you want me to handle it as I would my own? I warn you,
there’s a vast difference between the two! I can’t warn you too
seriously.”

She did not reply at once. Bowen waited until waiting grew
intolerable.

“Hello! Are you there, Miss Ferguson?”

“Yes. I—I was thinking. Please, Mr. Bowen, handle that stock entirely
as if it were your own. I’ll take the chance!”

“Good! Thank Heaven for your courage! I’ll be down presently.”

He had quite forgotten the five thousand which she bore for him.

Bowen returned to Dickover’s rooms in no great haste; talking with
Tonopah would take time as well as money. But when he entered, he
found Dickover giving his private secretary some instructions. “And
rush the papers here!” concluded the magnate. “With witnesses.”

“Well?” Bowen dropped into a chair, as if casually. “Did you get Lyman
yet?”

“The boy’s making out the papers now. I’ll buy. What did your lady
friend say?”

Bowen felt a trickle of sweat run down his back. The game was
won—almost!

“One thing at a time,” he said, laughing. “Let’s clean the Big Bony
off the slate, then clean off the Apex Crown.”

“Uhuh. One thing I meant to tell you, Bowen. Keep your eye peeled for
Henderson! That fellow is bad medicine when he’s crossed, and I judge
by your manner that you have crossed him some this morning.”

“I did, I hope,” Bowen chuckled. The magnate grunted non-committally.

In ten minutes the ownership of the Big Bony group of claims was
transferred from Bob Bowen to Dickover. The secretary and witnesses
departed. Bowen pocketed the magnate’s check for thirty thousand
dollars.

“You lost another thirty on that deal,” said Dickover complacently.

“I’ll clean up fifty with the thirty I got,” retorted Bowen. The other
chuckled.

“I’ll gamble that you do, at that! Well, about the Apex Crown—”

“We hang on to it.”

The eyes of the two men met and held for a long moment.

“Then,” Dickover’s fist crashed down on the table, “you’ll go smash!
All or nothing is my motto. In three days you won’t get three cents
for that stock—and what’s more, you never will get three cents for
it!”

Bowen rose, his lips curving in a smile.

“Maybe. Well, I’m glad to ’ve met you. Hope we meet again.”

“Same here.” The two men shook hands. Dickover extended another cigar.
“Smoke up on me after lunch, Bowen. Sorry you’re going smash with that
block of Apex Crown!”

“I’ll be sorry if I do,” said Bowen cryptically. “So-long!”




                      V—BOWEN TAKES A PARTNER.


Without comment, Bowen took the flat packet Miss Ferguson handed him,
dropped into the big plush chair beside her, and glanced at his watch.

“Eleven o’clock. Time to talk before lunch.” He glanced around and
found they were in no danger of eavesdroppers. Then, with leaping
pulses, he told the girl of his conversations with Henderson and
Dickover.

“And I refused Dickover’s offer,” he concluded bluntly, “and accepted
his threat to smash the stock. He’ll do it, too. By this time he’s
sent orders to his brokers to sell it, to smash the market flat.”

The girl’s eyes were steady on his.

“I’m content,” she said curtly. “But please explain. You’ve some
scheme?”

“You’ve said it. _Some_ scheme! Do you mind if I smoke? My nerves are
jumpy, and they’ll be worse before they’re better.”

She made a gesture of impatient assent. He lighted Dickover’s parting
gift and for a space sat in silence, his face deeply lined in thought.

“I’ve got to make this clear to you,” he said at last slowly. “You
know anything about low-grade silver ores?”

“Very little.”

“They’re low-grade because they are mixed with lead or zinc, hold a
small proportion of silver, and yield very small profit. The
separation of the silver and zinc is difficult. A hyperstatic process
has been invented, but if a chemical process could be found, it would
be cheaper and better; besides, it would make a yield of zinc as well
as of silver. And to-day both zinc and silver are soaring. You
understand?”

She nodded quickly. “And—and you think such a process has been found?”

A gleam of admiration sprang into Bowen’s gray eyes. For the first
time, he smiled his likable, boyish smile.

“Great Jehu, there is nothing slow about you!” he breathed. “Yes. My
guess—and mind this, it’s no more than a guess—is that Dickover has
advance information that this chemical process is now a verity. You
see? It is probably workable on ores of a certain silver-zinc
combination. I deduce this from the fact that the Apex Crown, the two
holdings I sold Henderson, and the Big Bony I sold Dickover are of
almost the same identical ore properties. Only such a discovery would
get Dickover after low-grade ores.”

She was leaning forward now, her eyes shining like twin stars.

“I see! Of course!” she exclaimed eagerly. “Henderson learned of this
and at once went out on his own hook to secure all the mines and
claims possible containing this grade of ore! And Dickover is here in
San Francisco to buy everything in sight before news of the discovery
has broken! Is that it?”

“You’ve said it. So far all’s straight. Got any questions ready?”

“Heaps!” The girl laughed, then instantly grew grave. “Dickover knows
that Henderson is a traitor and has been buying Apex Crown; yet
Dickover is ready to buy our stock, make the Apex Crown a great
success and enrich Henderson! Why?”

“I’ve doped it out; I struck the same snag myself—and others, too.
Like this! If Dickover gets our block of stock, he controls that mine.
He can let it lie useless for years, until Henderson has given up hope
and sold out the stock he’s been buying. And until that happens,
Dickover lets the mine lie dead for five years or fifty! Savvy?”

“Sure, so far.” Miss Ferguson frowned. “It’s getting involved, though.
The salient fact is the human equation—Dickover wants to smash
Henderson first, then develop the mine!”

“Exactly. He knows that Henderson is loaded to the guards with the
stock and is taking all that’s offered.”

“Then why does Dickover threaten to throw all _his_ stock on the
market? How would that smash anybody? Henderson could simply buy it
up, control the mine, and develop it by means of the new chemical
process!”

Bowen leaned back in his chair and puffed for a moment.

“Right there is where I had to make another quick guess, Miss
Ferguson. But I think I’m right. I _know_ I’m right! From what I
remember of the Apex Crown affair, a fair quantity of stock was issued
in the early days; close to half a million, I believe. We can verify
the figures this afternoon. With Henderson and Dickover scrapping over
a mere block of ten thousand shares, you see they have absorbed about
all of that stock that was lying around loose. Call it about two
hundred thousand shares or more to each of them.

“Now, when Dickover issued his Apex Crown ultimatum, I thought about
what I’d do if I were in his place and with his power; and upon that
it flashed over me exactly what _he_ would do—the only thing he
logically could do, upon such a threat as his! Remember that Dickover
knows human nature and gambles on it; remember, also, he has agents or
brokers in every large city in the country, and can strike
contemporaneously at a moment’s notice.”

“All clear so far,” said the girl quietly. “And your prophecy—”

“Is this: By to-day the stock is probably up to ten cents or more, and
none offered. Dickover to-day issues orders to throw overboard the
stock, beginning to-morrow morning; to throw overboard in such big
blocks that Henderson will know where it’s coming from. He’ll hammer
down the market, hammer it down until the stock is back to two cents
or less.

“And what happens? Will Henderson buy everything in sight? No. He
won’t have the money or the nerve. He’s a traitor, remember, and a
traitor has a yellow spot somewhere. Henderson will think that the
Apex Crown ore has proven unfit for going through the new chemical
process; or he may think that Dickover has put some string on the
property that makes the stock worthless; he may think any of a dozen
things, and he _will_. He’ll think all of ’em! Instead of finding
himself grown rich by a sneaky, slick trick, he’ll find Dickover
fighting him—and his nerve will go.”

“Possibly,” agreed the girl, watching Bowen with fascinated eyes. “But
it’s a poor thing to bet on, isn’t it? What’s the rest of the
prophecy?”

Bowen smiled grimly. “Quite logical. Henderson will find that he gave
me five thousand of his cash when he’s going to need it all. Before
the market is quite smashed down to its original state, he’s going to
loosen up on a big bunch of his stock. He’ll argue that at the right
moment. When Dickover begins to buy in again, he, too, can step
forward and get back his own—with some of Dickover’s to boot; enough
to give him control.”

“And,” cried the girl quickly, “Dickover knows that he’ll think so!
With all his organization and power, Dickover will step in first!
Before Henderson can do it, Dickover has done it. Is that the idea?”

“Exactly.” Bowen puffed for a moment; that cigar was too good to be
allowed to die. “Exactly. If Henderson does have the nerve to stick,
Dickover will beat him anyhow. Now do you see what the game of
Dickover is?”

“I see. And I think I agree with you—Henderson will lack nerve. He’ll
begin to unload his stock at four cents, will unload more at three,
and throw off all of it at two to break even. Then, when he’s cleaned
out of the stock, Dickover will rob the whole market!”

“Bully for you!” exclaimed Bowen eagerly. “I knew you’d understand!”

“Thank you.” She smiled, a trifle wanly. He saw that the strain of
understanding had been telling upon her. After all, that block of
stock was hers! “But I don’t understand yet why you refused Dickover’s
offer for my stock; and I don’t understand why you sold him a mine at
half its value!”

“I sold him that mine because I was going to need the money right
after lunch—and need it badly.” Bowen rose. “As for why I refused his
offer, let that go until we have lunch. I’ve licked Henderson and
Dickover this morning, which is going some; now I must add you to the
list—and I need a stimulant before opening fire.”

The girl made no demur. They sought the dining-room together; Bowen,
no less than Alice Ferguson, was keyed up to a high tension by the big
game, and the biggest game was still ahead of him—the hardest work.

Midway through luncheon, Bowen was sought by special messenger and was
handed a folded message. He put it in his pocket without reading, and
smiled across the table.

“Information for which I phoned. I don’t think much of brokers as a
class, but I do know of one man in the game whom I’d trust—Gus
Saunders. Ever hear of him?”

The girl shook her head. Bowen switched the subject. He took pains to
impress upon Miss Ferguson that he was not the magnate she had thought
him. He felt impelled to stand upon a frankly honest footing with this
level-eyed girl; he could do nothing else.

“And it was meeting Dickover on the train and here at the hotel,” she
said, laughter twinkling in her eyes, “that started you on this high
finance wave? Good gracious! If I’d known that when you called up
about the stock—”

“Well? What would you have said?”

“Just what I did say!” she finished with a laugh. “Now here comes our
coffee. Can’t you possibly unburden your mind yet? I can’t stand this
suspense a moment longer!”

Bowen grinned and slipped the waiter a gold piece. They were in a
corner of the big dining-room, and to themselves.

“Here, my friend! Keep everybody away from us and don’t bother us
until I call you!” The waiter bobbed and departed, and Bowen drew a
sigh of relief. “Now! We’ll wade in.”

He produced the packet of notes, and Dickover’s check for thirty
thousand, and laid them on the table before him. Then he drew forth
the message that had been brought him.

“Miss Ferguson, my proposition is simply this: That we go into
partnership on the Apex Crown. This message is from Gus Saunders. The
Apex Crown issued five hundred thousand shares, and the original
holders unloaded everything about a year ago, so that the entire issue
is on the market—or is divided between Henderson and Dickover. We’ve
already figured out that by to-morrow most of that stock will be back
on the market temporarily.”

“Until Dickover can swallow it at a gulp,” she added.

“Sure. That mine is highly valuable property—if the chemical process
has really been discovered. That’s what I’m gambling on; I’m certain
that in about another fortnight the mining world will get the news.
So, then, let’s get busy! I propose that you and I step in at the
psychological moment, when Dickover has scared Henderson into
unloading; that we make a bold strike and gobble about three hundred
thousand shares of that stock at the lowest figure. In short, that we
grab the Apex Crown for ourselves! Are you game?”

He was leaning forward, his lean face tensed, his gray eyes holding
her gaze.

For a moment she did not respond. When she did answer, her words
surprised him.

“Mr. Bowen, I—I don’t see why you make this proposition to me. You
have enough money there on the table to handle the affair yourself. I
cannot put any money into it.”

“What! Then you don’t want to go into it? You have no faith in my
theories?”

“Please don’t misunderstand me!” she replied quickly. “I’ve every
faith in you. But I cannot enter upon a partnership where I can give
nothing. Because I’m a girl, you’re generous to me—and I don’t want
people to be generous; I can fight my own battles—”

From Bowen broke a sudden ejaculation.

“Great Jehu! Of all the nonsense I ever heard, this is the worst!”

“Well! Isn’t it true?”

“No!” he exclaimed savagely. “It is not true! Not as you think. See
here, don’t you like the scheme? Don’t you realize that it’s a big
thing if successful?”

“Of course I do. But—if I were not a woman, you’d not offer this
partnership.”

It was Bowen’s turn to take the aggressive; he did it with a vim and
earnestness that brought the color flooding into her cheeks.

“You’re right. I wouldn’t! It’s because you _are_ a woman that I want
you for partner in this business; I need you! Fighting for myself, I’d
be apt to do any fool trick. But with your interests hanging on mine,
fighting for you as well as for myself, saddled with the
responsibility of your trust and your future—why, I’d fight like
_hell_! Excuse me. I didn’t mean that profanely, but literally.

“I tell you frankly, Miss Ferguson, you’d be an inspiration to any
man! I don’t talk like this to every woman. I’ve never _felt_ like
this before in my life. I never met you before, that’s the reason!
When I say I need you for a partner, I mean just that.

“Get angry if you want to; I can’t help it. This isn’t a question of
what money you can put in. You can put in your block of stock, for
that matter; the rest is personality, outbalancing all the money on
earth! You can help me with your advice, your character. I’m not
offering you charity, God knows!

“Now, it’s up to you—my cards are on the table. Say no, and I’ll give
you ten thousand for your stock. Say yes, and we’ll go into the game
as fighting partners. Which is it?”

In his appeal was force and something better than force—earnestness.

Alice Ferguson recognized it. She worked for her living, and had
learned to know something of what might lie beneath the words of a
man. She saw that Bowen’s speech might be crude and a bit too frank;
but she saw that he meant it. She read down to the good honest soul of
the man from Tonopah, and found honesty there. She realized that he
did indeed need her; that it would be a coward’s part to fail him. And
he was a man to trust.

“Yes,” she said, her eyes grave.

Bowen relaxed suddenly, drew a long breath like a sigh. He had been
tremendously keyed up to that moment.

“Then let’s go,” he said, rising. “Let’s go see Gus Saunders.”




                     VI—POTENTIAL MILLIONAIRES.


Once they were settled in a taxicab, Bowen produced the five thousand
in notes, removed the rubber-bands from the package, and counted out
twenty fifties.

“Here.” He handed the girl ten of the yellow-backs. “I need expense
money and so do you. Five hundred apiece will do.”

“But—”

“No time to be squeamish! We’re partners. This is an advance on the
profits.”

Miss Ferguson offered no further objection.

They found Gus Saunders awaiting them in his private office. A
conservative broker, this, albeit a young man; by inheritance the
junior head of a big firm; clean-cut in every line, and a good
sportsman. Bowen had frequently met him at Tonopah.

“Miss Ferguson, allow me to introduce Mr. Saunders. Miss Ferguson is
my partner at present, Gus, in a deal we’ve got on hand; looks like a
big one, and we need your help.”

“That’s my business,” and the broker smiled.

“There’s a curb stock by the name of—”

“Hold on!” Saunders flung up his hands. “Don’t talk curb stock to me.
Don’t touch the stuff, and you ought to know it!”

“Shut up till I get through!” snapped Bowen, and grinned. “You’re
refusing no good business that comes along; and I’m paying you any
commission on this job that you care to name. I’ll trust your end of
it, Gus—and there’s no one else I can trust.”

“Well,” conceded the other, “let’s hear about it.”

“Neither Miss Ferguson nor I are very wise to the brokerage game,”
pursued Bowen, “but we’ve doped out a theory and a course of action,
and if it’s O. K.’d by you, and if it is feasible, then you can shoot
ahead. To-morrow there is going to be some whopping big activity in
Apex Crown, both here and at Los Angeles.

“Everybody is going to unload that stuff; the market is to be crammed
down to two cents or under—probably under. At two cents, the man who’s
behind the move figures on jumping in and getting control of the mine.
Savvy? All right.

“Now, we want you to step in ahead of him. When that stock touches
three cents, step softly and begin to buy. At two cents grab it with
both hands. Keep on grabbing until the price goes up again to ten—”

“Just one minute, please!” broke in Miss Ferguson excitedly. “If this
activity does not begin until to-morrow, why can’t we begin to-day?
Every share we get is going to count for control of the mine, Mr.
Bowen. If we can get some to-day, each of our friends will think the
other man is buying it.”

“Good,” assented Bowen crisply. “Now, Gus, will you handle it for us?
You have plenty of agents, and can pull the strings at the right
moment without trouble.”

The broker chuckled. “This is the first time I ever manipulated curb
stocks, Bob! But we’ll tackle it. You don’t want to buy two-cent
stocks on a margin, I suppose?”

Bowen emitted a sarcastic grunt, and drew forth his cash and checks.

“Here are two checks Dickover handed me this morning,” and he was not
above feeling an inner satisfaction at the broker’s quickly concealed
surprise, “and some cash. An even thirty-four thousand, five hundred
in all. Will that turn the deal?”

“What do you folks think you’re buying—Amalgamated Motors? This ought
to buy the Apex Crown outright—half of it ought to buy all the shares
on the market!”

“Half of it won’t,” said Bowen grimly. “And you take out your
commission before the money evaporates, because we haven’t any more!
But you get us control of that mine, and as much more as the cash will
let you buy.”

“All right. Let’s sign up the orders. Do you want to stick around here
and get my reports as they come in?”

“Not me,” said Bowen emphatically. “Bob Bowen does not intend to
become a hanger-on and a parasite, with his nerves snapping and
bursting all to h—all to thunder! You call me up at the Palace when
I’m broke or when the deal is over.”

Ten minutes later Bowen and Miss Ferguson returned to the street.

“Please don’t call a taxi!” The girl laughed. “It’s such—such an awful
waste of money—and I’d much sooner walk!”

“We’ll be millionaires on this deal; we should worry! However, I’m
with you. Let’s walk. Where next?”

“Where? Why, I’ll have to get back to the office—”

“The office? And you a potential millionaire?”

She laughed, and not nervously this time. Bowen’s air was infectious.

“I think I’ll hang on to that office, Mr. Bowen! Anyway, I’ve promised
to turn out some work by to-night.”

They walked along in silence until they reached the Crothers Building.
At the entrance the girl paused and turned to Bowen.

“You haven’t told me what you expect to do with that mine—when we get
it!”

“Do! Why, what did you suppose? Work it by the new chemical process,
of course! Or else sell it outright; once the process is on the
market, a mine like the Apex Crown will be a bargain at a million!
Dickover knows. He said the stock would be worth five dollars a
share—when he got ready to make it worth that!”

“Very well.” Miss Ferguson put out her hand. “I’ll say good-by for
this time and get back to work. You’ll let me know?”

“You bet I will!” exclaimed Bowen heartily, seeking a pretext for
detaining her, but finding none.

He strode along to the Palace with his head in the clouds. Come to
think of it, he had earned an afternoon of loafing!

All the previous day he had been watching his plans go from bad to
worse, despite the puff he had received in the paper. But at nine
o’clock this morning things had begun to move, and they had continued
to move with lightning rapidity. His brain had been on the jump
keeping one step ahead. For five hours he had been under a growing
mental strain which had told tenfold upon his iron-bound physical
self.

In five hours he had taken in thirty-five thousand, five hundred
dollars, most of it from a man whom he could never have approached in
an ordinary way. The whole thing had started with his meeting on the
limited with Dickover and the drummer. And now the majority of that
money had been laid out on a gamble which might—might—return millions!
If he could grab enough of Henderson’s stock and Dickover’s stock
combined, at the moment both men had unloaded; if he could step in
ahead of Dickover and at the proper moment get control—

“I’ve got to stop thinking about this thing,” he muttered fiercely.
“It’s got my brain turning handsprings. There’s nothing for me to do,
anyhow! Everything is in the hands of Gus Saunders now. I need a
bracer, and I’m going to get it. Then I’ll buy some magazines and loaf
a while.”

Bowen was the type of man who takes a drink only when he really needs
it, and does not need it often. Now he needed it, and straightway got
it. Then he visited a few shops. Having bought some clothes and
certain other things of which he stood in need, he returned to the
hotel, deposited most of his five hundred in the hotel safe, and
settled down in the lobby over some magazines.

For half an hour he read and let his jangled nerves relax. He refused
utterly to look up Apex Crown in the papers.

Suddenly he realized that his own name was being called by an
evanescent page with a tray. “Mr. Bow-en! Mr. Bow-en!” Rising, Bowen
attracted the attention of the buttoned autocrat and was handed a
card. It read:

             “Oliver Hazard Perry Cheadle, Mineralogist.”

“The gentleman’s at the desk? Send him up to my room in five minutes.”

Bowen betook himself to the elevator. Who was Oliver Hazard Perry
Cheadle? The name was totally unknown to him. Arriving at his room, he
sought the telephone directory, but found no such name listed.

Mr. O. H. P. Cheadle proved to be a plump, chalky-faced little man
with the bland countenance of a cherub. His eyelids blinked behind
thick spectacles. His linen was dirty to a degree. He spoke with a
slow hesitance in the selection of words. He shook hands with a limp,
flaccid grip.

“Mr. Bowen, may I request—er—a few moments of your—er—time? You are a
very busy man, I know, but I believe that I have a—er—a proposition to
interest you. I read of your being here in—er—the paper—”

“Sit down and rest your heels,” said Bowen cordially, laughing to
himself.

So here was another result of his publicity! It was something to be a
public character, to be classed with the great Dickover!

Mr. Oliver Hazard Perry Cheadle, like a solemn little owl, went
directly to business. He had just come to town from Arizona. He had a
mine to sell. He had seen by the paper that Bob Bowen, of Tonopah, was
heavily interested in low-grade silver properties. His holdings were
not silver, but were copper-zinc, and he was so badly in need of ready
money, _et cetera_.

Bowen heard him out. After all, why not have a crack at everything
that offered? Zinc-copper ore was not unattractive in prospect.

“Besides, I’ve nothing to keep me busy,” he thought. And said aloud,
“Let’s see the samples.”

Mr. Cheadle was apologetic. The samples and assayer’s report were all
at his own lodgings. He had not ventured to think that Mr.
Bowen—er—would be interested offhand, and—

“Well, let’s go have a look,” said Bowen, rising. The humility of Mr.
Cheadle was slightly annoying. “Where are you stopping? Oh, don’t
protest, man; I’m free for the day.”

It appeared that Mr. Cheadle was stopping at a rooming-house just off
Sutter Street. Together the two men descended to the street, where the
magnate hailed a taxicab. Bob Bowen, of Tonopah, believed in enjoying
affluence while he had it.

The taxi sped out Sutter, crossed Van Ness, and a few blocks farther
on veered to the left and halted before one of the extremely
old-fashioned residences, high off the sidewalk, which in this section
of the city had escaped the fire.

Being a stranger to San Francisco, Bob Bowen did not realize that they
had entered upon what in these latter days had become the Japanese
quarter; nor, had he known, would the fact have meant anything to him.
He felt a mingled repulsion and interest in Oliver Hazard Perry
Cheadle. It was entirely reasonable that an impecunious Hassayamper
would have sought just such a dingy, antiquated rooming-house as this.

And Bowen reasoned why not pass the good work along? He himself had
come to town practically broke; a clap on the back from Dickover had
put him on the path to fortune. Why not lend the same halo to Oliver
Hazard Perry Cheadle?

Thus thinking, with a righteous glow of generosity warming the cockles
of his heart, Bob Bowen allowed himself to be ushered into a dark
hallway. To Bowen’s surprise, the hallway seemed roofed by stars and
specks of light; he was only dimly conscious of a crushing blow on the
head that sent him reeling and staggering into utter darkness.




                      VII—A PAIR OF PROFITEERS.


When a man is hit on the back of the head, hard enough to knock him
out without any error, it hurts.

Bob Bowen discovered this fact with a vengeance. He had never before
been hit on the head with malice prepense; and when he came to himself
he was slow in realizing what had happened, and why. He was conscious
of a light, and also of a keenly stabbing headache. There seemed to be
a lump of some consequence behind his right ear.

The light presently made itself clear as coming from a gas-jet against
the wall. Bowen was quite uncertain about his perspective, but finally
decided that he was lying on the floor. Pain in his wrists and ankles
told him that, incredible though it seemed, his wrists and ankles were
lashed together too tightly for comfort.

“Guess I’m not supposed to be comfortable,” he murmured, with the
ghost of a smile.

The murmur produced an effect.

Into the area of gaslight above Bowen appeared a face. It was a plump
but chalky face, the face of Oliver Hazard Perry Cheadle. Gone were
the thick spectacles and the bland, cherubic expression. In the stead
of them there was a leering grin that quite transfigured the erstwhile
mineralogist from Arizona.

“Dropped you!” said Mr. Cheadle, with a complete absence of hesitation
or culture. “You poor fish! Dropped you like a inner-cent babe, I did!
Mebbe Henderson won’t grin when he lamps that mug of yours. But why
you don’t carry more cash in your pocket, I don’t see—”

The voice died away, and the livid face. Bowen felt unconsciousness
swirling upon him; but before his senses lapsed, he realized that
things are seldom what they seem, and that in his first half-amused
judgment of Mr. Cheadle he had made a grievous error. Then he fell
asleep, entirely satisfied on that point.

When he wakened again he saw through half-closed lids that now it was
broad daylight. Hearing the voices of two men in the room, and
recognizing both voices, Bowen did not open his eyes fully. Instead,
he shut them again and kept them shut for a time.

His head was still hurting, but not with that first keen pain; it was
now the dulled, deadened hurt of an old bruise. It no longer dominated
him. He had wakened alert, with full memory of what had passed; he
was, in short, pretty much himself, except for the cold anger that
possessed him. A burning thirst consumed him, but anger dominated it.

And when Bob Bowen was angry to the bottom of his soul, he was not the
man to pause over half-way measures, or to ask himself what might
happen. He knew what would happen if he got the chance!

“He ain’t wise to the world yet,” said the voice of Cheadle. “Want to
stir him up?”

“No,” the more biting tones of Henderson made response. “No time for
that now. Let it wait until to-night.”

“Well, what then?” Cheadle was evidently impatient. “I’m tired o’
being a door-mat, Henderson. I want to know how the big stroke is
comin’, and why; and about this poor boob—what’s going to happen to
him and us. No more obeying orders till I know why, boss.”

The ugly note in that voice was manifest even to Bowen. Henderson
replied quickly.

“Him? Oh, leave him till to-night. I’m not going to hurt him any more;
just let him know he mustn’t butt into _my_ games after this. We’ll
scatter some whisky on his clothes and take him over to the Mission
and leave him. He isn’t the sort of fool who spills all he knows to
the police; he’s too wise to buy chips in a stacked game! He’ll take
his lesson.

“And now come along and we’ll sit in at the big game.”

Footsteps and silence. Then the two voices again, less clear this
time, but quite intelligible, and a scrape of chairs.

Bowen opened his eyes. He was lying on the floor of a disordered
bedroom, lighted by a dingy window. Three feet from him a curtain
closed an old-style double doorway; the doors were not pulled to, and
in the other room were Henderson and Cheadle. The former telephoned to
some unknown “Charley,” and gave orders to be kept in touch with every
move of Apex Crown. Then he and Cheadle fell into conversation,
earnest and low-voiced.

Though he caught only scraps of that conversation, Bowen listened in
astounded incredulity. Before him the two speakers unfolded a deeper
and craftier knavery than he had ever dreamed; schooled as he was in
the tricky mining game, the former agent of Dickover was now springing
something unrivaled in his experience for audacity and duplicity! From
the muttered voices Bowen was enabled to piece together the following
scheme of things:

Cheadle was the superintendent in charge of the Apex Crown
development.

Two months previously, Dickover had received private information that
a chemical process for treating zinc-silver ore economically was being
perfected. He had at once sent Henderson on a private trip to pick up
low-grade silver properties and form a gigantic combination; for as
soon as news of the chemical process reached the market, low-grade
silver would soar. Henderson had found from Cheadle that the Apex
Crown was petering out. The vein had been worked to death, and there
was no promise of picking up anything beyond. Whereupon Henderson had
conceived a plan amazingly bold and clever, Cheadle being his
accessory and abettor.

Henderson had sent Dickover a glowing report on the Apex Crown.
Cheadle had sent his stockholders news that a twenty-five-foot vein
was opening up. Therefore Dickover had issued orders to add Apex Crown
to his low-grade holdings. Henderson had quietly bought for himself.

“So we now own some two hundred thousand shares,” went on the voice of
Henderson. Bowen drank in every word. He felt a cold sweat trickling
down his spine as he realized that Apex Crown was worthless.

“Sure,” rejoined Cheadle. “But I don’t get this highbrow play with
Dickover! Why bust things off with him?”

“To make him hate me.” Henderson laughed silkily. “The day before
Dickover came to town, I went to this Ferguson girl, made her a big
offer for her stock, and then made her mad with some bullying. I
figured she’d go to Dickover or some of his brokers for advice.
Instead, she went to this boob, Bowen. You see? Bowen did the rest. He
tipped off Dickover that I was crooked; Dickover fired me, hating me
like hell! Now, Apex Crown was at nine and a half this morning—hello!
There’s a report.”

The telephone rang.

“Sell?” rasped Henderson, a fighting edge to his voice. “Sell? You
sell when I tell you to, and not before! No! You’ll not sell—till I
give the order!”

He slammed up the receiver and emitted an oath.

“Charley says the stock is getting shot all to pieces! Some one is
unloading in chunks from one to ten thousand—it’s down to seven here,
and four at Los Angeles. That’s Dickover’s work. He’s cramming the
market down—”

“What!” From Cheadle broke a startled cry. “Then he’s discovered—”

“Shut up!” snarled Henderson. “He’s discovered nothing, I tell you!
He’s doing the very thing I’d expected him to do. Don’t you suppose I
know Dickover from start to finish? D’you think I’ve been his
confidential agent without knowing him like a book?”

“Then why the hell is he unloading?” growled Cheadle.

“To bust me. He thinks I’m trying to get hold of Apex Crown. He’s
doing the very thing I knew he would do—I knew it from the day I met
you first and got your report of the petering vein! He figures that
because I double-crossed him I’ve got a yellow streak. He thinks that
I want Apex Crown because I know about that chemical process. And what
does he do? He—”

Cheadle broke in with a coarse laugh. “Then he still thinks the ol’
mine is worth hanging on to?”

“Of course. You and I are the only men who know it isn’t worth a damn.
Dickover hates me now, hates me bad enough to ruin himself to get my
pelt. He’s trying to smash Apex Crown as flat as a pancake, and he’ll
do it before noon to-day! He figures that I’ll get scared. He’s dead
sure that I’ve got a yellow streak. He’s gambling that when Apex Crown
gets away down, I’ll grow scared and unload to save something from the
wreck. See?”

“Uhuh! But what _will_ you do? What’s your game? How the devil do we
make a killing out of this?”

“We bought our stock at two to five cents, didn’t we?” Henderson
laughed. “About noon Apex Crown will be flat. When it is, then I dump
over a hundred thousand shares in small lots. Dickover thinks I’ve
fully unloaded; he steps in to grab the stock. I help him by grabbing
back my hundred thousand shares, and the price goes up. Worse than
that, it skyrockets! When it gets to a dollar, which is about the
limit, we’ll unload for good. We’ll get rid of the whole thing at
between a dollar and fifty—and clean up a hundred thousand odd
dollars!”

“Whew!” Cheadle’s whistle of admiration changed and died suddenly.
“But say! Ain’t that stock juggling illegal? Ain’t the gov’ment going
to investigate?”

“Let ’em!” Henderson laughed scornfully. “If they can ever prove
anything on Dickover or me, either, let ’em! Think we are fools? With
that hundred thousand, and the low-grade properties I’ve already got,
I’ll be fixed for life when news of that chemical process gets into
print! And I’ll see that it does get into print before many more
days.”

Again the telephone jingled.

“Some boob is buying,” snarled Henderson, reporting to his partner in
rascality. “But the price is going down just the same. Four here and
two and a half in Los Angeles.”

The voices dropped beyond the hearing of Bowen. But he had heard
enough. The irony of the situation was that Henderson did not in the
least realize that his clever scheme was utterly ruining the man he
hated, Bob Bowen, of Tonopah!

“And he sha’n’t know it if I can help it,” grimly reflected Bowen.

He fought down the panic that gripped him. He felt no satisfaction at
having correctly guessed Dickover’s plan of campaign. He felt no
delight at having correctly guessed that a chemical process _had_ been
perfected. All this was lost in the thought that he had ruined Alice
Ferguson. For himself he did not greatly care. He had been broke
before, and would be broke again!

But the thought of the girl who had believed in him, hurt and rankled.
It must now be getting on toward noon, he concluded. By this time Gus
Saunders, through scattered agents, was buying Apex Crown here and in
Los Angeles; buying it for Bowen and Ferguson! Dickover was grimly
hammering down the stock. Saunders’s buying would be too carefully
handled to send it shooting up in a hurry. And when Saunders got all
through, according to the orders the partners had given him, they
would own a mine that was absolutely worthless!

“As soon as we’ve got in the clear”—Henderson’s chuckling tone came
through the muffling curtain with new clearness—“we’ll spring the news
about the mine having petered out completely. Then maybe she won’t
smash! I tell you what, Cheadle! This manipulation is going to be
investigated, all right; you run out and bring up some lunch, will
you? While you’re gone, locate somebody you can trust, and have him
spread the news that Apex Crown has petered out. Have it done at
exactly two o’clock.

“Dickover will get the wires hot in five minutes, and you can arrange
for him to discover the truth at Tonopah. Wire somebody there that the
mine’s busted and you are in Frisco.”

“What’s the matter with your own men doing all this?” growled Cheadle
suspiciously.

“I’m doing the operating; I’ll be the first man under investigation.
Can’t afford to take the risk, even to put a hole in Dickover’s
bank-account, blast him! But you can do it. Put on those glasses and
that line of talk you can assume, and you’ll get by. Don’t you know
any one you can trust?”

There was a moment of silence, then a chair was scraped back.

“I know a guy,” returned Cheadle. “I guess it can be done safe enough.
Two o’clock, eh?”

Cheadle came through the curtained doorway and, without glancing at
the prostrate Bowen, opened a wall-cabinet, took out his thick
spectacles, and donned them. Then, as he took a step, he stumbled over
Bowen’s feet. Catching at the wall to save himself from falling, he
dislodged the wall-cabinet and sent a shower of toilet articles over
the floor.

Mr. Oliver Hazard Perry Cheadle cursed heartily and fluently. He even
kicked the man from Tonopah in the ribs, but Bowen merely grunted and
kept his eyes closed. Then Cheadle passed back into the next room.

“Two o’clock, eh?” he repeated surlily. “Sure we’ll be clear by then?”

“Leave that part of it to me,” said Henderson sharply. “We’ll be
clear. But be sure to have the trick turned at two sharp! That ’ll
give Dickover plenty of time to find the report is true, and to
unload. I want to see him get a crimp, the big toad!”

“Then at two she busts,” said Cheadle. “And hurry back here with the
lunch. I’m getting hungry.”

Cheadle grunted and a door slammed behind him.

Bowen lay motionless, his head twisted so that he could idly survey
the wreckage caused by Cheadle’s stumble. This final move of
Henderson’s had removed his last hope. At three o’clock that afternoon
Apex Crown would be known to all men as worthless—and the Apex Crown
would be the property of Bob Bowen, of Tonopah!

But it was Alice Ferguson that Bowen was chiefly thinking. Whose fault
but his that her little patrimony would be wiped out?




                    VIII—THE SMASH OF APEX CROWN.


Slowly anger uprose again in Bowen’s soul. After all, the disaster
that was upon him and upon Alice Ferguson was not primarily his own
fault! It was due to the machinations, the fraud and trickery of
Henderson.

“We’re simply meshed in the net he has woven,” thought Bowen. “And
there’s no way out! Great Jehu, if I could only get my hands free for
five minutes!”

But he could not, and gave up the instinctive effort. His hands and
feet were numb and swollen by reason of the tight lashings. The thirst
that racked him was unbearable. He kept silent, however. Ask Henderson
for a drink? Beg Henderson for mercy? Not yet!

Time passed.

Through the curtain Bowen could hear Henderson answering the
telephone, but not in any manner to supply further information. He
knew that the man was smoking, could smell the tobacco: it wakened the
craving within him and intensified his thirst. Once Charley called up,
and presumably demanded permission to sell, for Henderson answered
savagely:

“I told you once before that I’d give orders! Now shut up. You sell
when I tell you to sell, and not before. Get that? I’m giving the
orders in this deal, and not you! You tell me when that stock climbs
to ninety—what? Never mind your predictions; I know what’s doing! When
it touches ninety, call me, that’s all. But don’t you dare sell until
I give you the word!”

Again the scratch of a match, followed by silence. Bowen’s eyes were
caught by a metallic glint on the threadbare carpet, two feet from his
head—just about opposite his elbow. He stared at it for a moment
without recognition. Then suddenly his gray eyes widened a little.

The object had been spilled with the other things from the
wall-cabinet. It was rusty and had evidently been long discarded,
forgotten. It was the slender steel blade of a safety-razor!

“Great Jehu!” muttered Bowen. “Great Jehu! If I only could!”

He was lying half on one side, half on his arms, which were bound
behind his back. Carefully he moved his numbed limbs, moved his aching
body. Inch by inch he moved it, sidling up and along until he judged
that his lashed hands were about level with the bit of rusted steel.
Gropingly he felt for it. A moment later his searching fingers came in
contact with the razor-blade.

Bowen relaxed, a deep breath of achievement swelling his chest. He lay
quiet, half fearing lest his movements had been heard by Henderson.
But no sign came from the other room.

As the possibilities unfolded, a desperate inspiration flashed upon
Bowen’s brain.

After all, there was still a chance, more than a chance, of retrieving
the disaster! That bit of rusted steel placed hope between his hands!
How late it was, he could not tell, but it must be long past noon,
although Cheadle had not yet returned with the luncheon. Bowen smiled
at the thought. If he could but free his feet and wrists! If he could
but down those two scoundrels! If he could but telephone to Gus
Saunders before two o’clock! Then the market for Apex Crown would be
at its height, and Saunders could unload before the crash!

Bowen had dreamed of millions, when he believed the mine to be good.
Now that it was a question of at best getting out from under, there
was still hope of cleaning up a tidy fortune. But he would have to
phone Gus Saunders before two o’clock!

Cautiously holding the edged blade in his almost senseless fingers,
Bob Bowen fumbled with it for the cord that bound his wrists behind
him. He could not make the keen blade reach. Just as he realized this,
just as he realized that the job was not going to be so easy as it had
seemed, he heard Cheadle enter the adjoining room.

“Done it, Henderson!” Cheadle apparently set down a basket, for there
was a rattle of dishes. “There’s lunch.”

“You fixed it all right? Sure it’s safe?” demanded the eager voice of
Henderson.

“Safe as shootin’, pardner! At two o’clock the storm busts, and Lord
help us if we ain’t somewheres else!”

“Leave that to me. What’s this you got to drink—milk! You’re a nice
one, you are! Bringing me milk to drink—”

“It’s all you get. I mean that you shall keep a clear head to-day,
pardner. No booze in yours until we’ve cashed in! Now lay out the
grub. Have you looked at _him_ in there? Has he waked up yet?”

“Don’t know and don’t care,” grunted Henderson.

Cheadle came striding through the doorway. Forewarned, Bowen closed
his hand over the bit of rusty steel in his palm. He looked up at
Cheadle, who bent over and examined his bonds.

“Don’t I get something to eat?” hoarsely demanded Bowen. “Give me a
drink at least—”

“You shut up.” Cheadle bestowed upon him a gentle kick. “You’re blamed
lucky to get off at all!”

Cheadle strode back to his partner in crime. Henderson began retailing
reports that had come over the phone, but now Bowen paid no heed to
the mumble of voices.

Working frantically, Bowen strove to reach his wrist-cords with the
edged steel. At first he found it practically impossible. Twice the
blade slipped in his numbed fingers and struck into his flesh. Fearful
lest he sever a wrist-artery, he took more caution.

At length he got a grip that held upon the thin steel, and to his keen
joy felt the tip of the blade touch a cord. Slowly it bit through. A
slight tug told him that the strand had parted. Dropping the blade, he
worked his arms until the severed cord loosened. Scarce sensible of
the motion, scarce able to make his brain control the congested
members, Bowen drew his arms from beneath him.

He was free—but for the moment, helpless. He could not move his hands;
they were swollen and purpled, quite without feeling.

For a while he lay, content to slowly chafe the life back into his
fingers. With an effort he sat up, found the razor-blade where he had
dropped it, and freed his ankles. Still he could do no more than
strive to bring the banished blood back into hands and feet. Motion
intensified his thirst, which seemed burning the throat out of him!
But he made no sound.

Slowly strength and control came back to his hands. He clenched them
with a grim smile; they were pretty good hands after all—quite equal
to the work that lay ahead! And suddenly, as he cautiously tried to
gain his feet without noise, he heard a chair scraped back in the
adjoining room.

“Confound that grapefruit!” It was Henderson who spoke, with
irritation. “I’m going across the hall to the toilet and wash up. Call
me if Charley rings up.”

“Sure,” responded Cheadle.

The door slammed after Henderson. The next instant Bowen heard the
footsteps of Cheadle crossing the floor—toward him.

Catlike, the man from Tonopah came to his feet, looked swiftly around
for a weapon. He could not trust his fists—yet! There was too much at
stake. He must call Gus Saunders before two o’clock!

As the dumpy figure of Cheadle parted the curtains, Bowen caught up a
small footstool—the first object to hand—and hurled it. The hassock
took Cheadle in the side of the head and knocked him sprawling. Before
he could recover, Bowen was upon him; and, without any mercy, struck
two blows that knocked out the fat little mining man.

Moving rapidly, Bowen caught up the cords that had bound him, tied
Cheadle hand and foot, and rolled the inert body under the bed. Barely
had he finished and come erect, when Henderson returned to the
adjoining room.

“Nothing doing yet, eh?” he sang out. The telephone rang, and saved
Bowen from making any response. Henderson took the message and
repeated his former commands.

“Well, didn’t I tell you the stock was kiting up? Now you wait for my
order to sell, and keep your ear close to the phone! I want no monkey
business at the last moment.”

Henderson banged up the receiver. “She’s up to ninety, Cheadle!” he
called exultantly. “What ’d I tell you, eh? It’s just ten minutes of
two now. In five minutes I’ll give Charley orders to sell—”

“I’ll bet you two to one you don’t,” said Bowen, stepping into the
room.

He had thought to take Henderson by surprise; to down the
thunderstruck man without a struggle. But he had far underestimated
Dickover’s former agent. Henderson had spread upon a small table which
bore the telephone, the dishes borne in by Cheadle. Without a second’s
hesitation, Henderson picked up a heavy restaurant coffee-cup and
hurled it fair and square at the face of his opponent.

Caught athwart the forehead by the missile, Bowen almost crumpled up.
Henderson was upon him like a wildcat, beating at him with another
cup. Bowen could do no more than clinch.

Locked in each other’s arms, the two men reeled back and forth,
smashed over chairs, went crashing into the wall with terrific impact.
The shock separated them. Henderson’s arm swept up; the heavy crockery
cracked down upon Bowen’s head, struck full against the blood-black
bruise Cheadle had given him, and shivered to pieces.

Under that terrific blow, Bob Bowen felt himself going, and going
fast. He lunged forward and caught Henderson about the body: A final
great wave of strength surged into him, and he threw Henderson over
his hip—an old wrestling trick. He saw the man drive head first into
the wall—and saw no more. For the second time, his knees were loosened
and black darkness engulfed his soul.

When he wakened again, Bowen sat up and looked around dazedly,
wondering at the deadly ache in his head. He remembered by slow
degrees. He saw Henderson lying across the room, lying in a limp mass.
He heard the man’s stertorous breathing. It was the deep, hard
breathing of a man badly hurt.

Slowly Bob Bowen came to his feet. Staggering, he came to the table,
clutched the bottle of milk, poured the revivifying fluid down his
throat. A deep sigh of satisfaction burst from him—and then he
remembered. Two o’clock! How long had he lain senseless?

With a groan, Bowen flung himself across the room to Henderson’s side.
His fingers trembling, he drew out Henderson’s watch. It was two
forty!

A moment later, Bowen seized the telephone and gave the number of Gus
Saunders. He waited, frantic with suspense, until he heard the
broker’s voice. There might yet be hope! Cheadle might have made
mistakes.

“You, Bob? Good Lord!” Saunders’s tone sent his heart down. “We’ve
been looking all over town for you—”

“What’s your last report on Apex Crown?” cried Bowen hoarsely. “Has it
broken—”

“Broke all to smash at two o’clock. Last report was eight cents here
and going down fast. Miss Ferguson is here. You’d better come down and
settle up—”

Bowen slammed the receiver on the hook. “Oh, hell!” he said simply.
“Well, we’ll face the music!”




                        IX—FEMININE INSTINCT.


Bob Bowen sat in the private office of Gus Saunders at three fifteen.
On the way down-town he had stopped at a doctor’s office and had had
his head bound up. As he himself put it, a couple of days would see
him able to butt into another wall.

“And I’ve sure butted it this time,” he said with assumed
cheerfulness, as he concluded his story. In the eyes of Alice Ferguson
he read quick sympathy—sympathy, and something else that set his
pulses to leaping. But he refused to meet her eyes.

“I sure have,” he went on. “Where I made my mistake was in thinking
that Henderson was—was—well, that he was something less than
Henderson! My one consolation is that I knocked him out so effectually
that he never got word to the unknown Charley to sell out. When the
news of the real condition of the Apex Crown got abroad, and the
market busted all to nothing, Henderson was still rocked in the cradle
of the deep. It makes me feel better to think that that skunk went
down with us!

“But I’m only sorry for—for your sake, Miss Ferguson. I’m not worrying
about my own money; but yours—”

“Mine is safe,” said the girl, gazing at him with shining eyes.

Bowen sat up a trifle straighter. “What?”

“I have a confession to make, Mr. Bowen—a happy confession,” said the
girl, earnestly, leaning forward. “Mr. Saunders had been trying to get
in touch with you all morning and had failed. No one knew where you
were. At noon I came down here and got reports. Then the stock began
to go up and up. It reached ninety, and was still climbing!

“To tell you the truth, I was afraid. Why? I can’t say, except that it
was just a feeling inside of me. There was no word from you; all sorts
of rumors were flying around about Apex Crown, and—and Mr. Saunders
said that the stock was being so rottenly manipulated that there might
be an investigation! That frightened me more than anything. So I told
Mr. Saunders to sell the whole thing—”

Saunders came to his feet with a whoop of delight.

“Feminine instinct, by George!” he shouted, his repressed mirth
breaking out in a roar of laughter. “Bob, old man, she made me sell
out the whole blamed bunch around ninety! So help me, she did, and we
did!”

Bowen stared from one to the other, staggered. He could not at first
grasp the reality of what had taken place.

“You’re not trying just to brace me up—”

“Rats!” Saunders clapped him on the shoulders happily. “Not a bit of
it. I’m a cold-blooded business man, and I don’t give a whoop about
bracing you up! As a matter of fact, I did not get control of the
stock after all. Henderson’s holdings never did come on the market,
you know, except in part. So when I saw how things were going, I let
Miss Ferguson boss the job. And it’s blamed lucky I did!”

“Great Jehu!” said Bowen slowly. “Then—then we’re not broke after
all—”

“Not by two hundred thousand or so! Which, I judge, our friend
Dickover pays—”

Bowen came to his feet, a trifle unsteadily.

“Gus,” he said, his voice solemn, but a twinkle in his gray eyes,
“this can only happen once in a lifetime. Thank Heaven it happened in
my lifetime! Now, see here. It was Miss Ferguson who saved the bacon
to-day, and I want to tell you that she’s too good a partner to lose.
Would you mind making this a real private office for a few minutes?”

With a blank look that swiftly changed to a grin of comprehension, Mr.
Saunders left.

Bowen turned to Alice Ferguson, and at sight of her rapidly crimsoning
countenance the old boyish smile came to his lips.

“Hold on!” he exclaimed. “Don’t say anything for about two minutes,
please! I’m all done with business. I don’t want to hear the word
again—between us. When I’m talking about partnership like I want to
talk, I mean something else than business! Maybe you’ll think that I’m
pretty sudden, but I tell you that I never met any one like you
before, and I never will again. And I want you to listen, because—”

And Alice Ferguson listened.

                              (The end.)

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the November 2, 1918
issue of All-Story Weekly magazine.]

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 67361 ***