here in Tigmore County, but farther
southwest,--men are drilling into rock that looks rich, and cuts blind,
quick enough to ruin them; and I know that we are not going into this
thing to lose money, but to make it, coming and going; I know that we've
got to stand to win, coming and going. That's business."

Face to face with this sort of frank self-commitment to "business,"
Steering was impressed into silence, and Madeira took advantage of the
silence to push on in the big way he had that was like the
broad-paddling, tooting vehemence of a river steamer. "I'm for getting a
drill into the hills right away, just as much as ever you can be, my
boy, understand. It will look better. We'll do it. But Lord love you, we
won't hold back the organisation for that. Just leave these things to
me. I've got a programme arranged here that will suit you, I think.
First thing is to take you around and let you see that document in the
recorder's office,--I believe you said you wanted to read the Bruce
Peele will,--then you can come out and have dinner with Sally and me.
I've got a nice place three miles out, and I've got a daughter that is
not to be beat, in New York or out of it. Then this evening we'll get
together some of the fellows that I handle around here, and take up some
of the preliminary business."

Madeira had risen, preparatory to conducting Steering to the recorder's
office in accord with the first number of his programme, and Steering
got up, too. While Madeira shut up his desk, Steering threw away the
stump of his cigar and brought his flexed arms back to his shoulders
with an expansive pull on his chest that sent a big influx of air into
his lungs. After his seance with Madeira he felt as though he had been
pummelled down flat. Madeira had to open his desk again for something he
had forgotten and Steering passed on to the door, impatient for some
outside air. As he opened the door, with his eyes rather thoughtfully
fixed upon the floor, he saw, peeping around the curve where the Force's
cage elbowed its way out into the room, a foot. Being a slender foot, in
a well-fitting walking boot, it held him an unconscionably long time,
then drew him on mandatorily, up the little space between the Force's
cage and the wall, until he had rounded the curve and had come out by
the Force's window, where a bare-headed girl leaned, talking merrily,
gouging a hat-pin into the hat that she had taken off.

"Oh, it's Mr. Steering,--isn't