“Oh, this one’s solid as an old goose,” said Jeff. “Fifty thousand dollars’ worth of ore in sight, and 10 per cent monthly earnings guaranteed.”
He drew a long envelope from his pocket and cast it on the table.
“Always carry it with me,” said he. “So the burglar can’t corrupt or the capitalist break in and water it.”
“I looked at the beautifully engraved certificate of stock.
“In Colorado, I see,” said I. “And, by the way, Jeff, what was the name of the little man who went to Denver—the one you and Bill met at the station?”
“Alfred E. Ricks,” said Jeff, “was the toad’s designation.”
“I see,” said I, “the president of this mining company signs himself A. L. Fredericks. I was wondering—”
“Let me see that stock,” said Jeff quickly, almost snatching it from me.
To mitigate, even though slightly, the embarrassment I summoned the waiter and ordered another bottle of the Barbera. I thought it was the least I could do.
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