to you--ha'f cash an' ha'f credit. Is it a deal?"

The other's face flamed up. A volcanic heat set him almost shouting.

"To hell!" he cried fiercely. "Ther's fi' hundred dollars ther' if
ther's a cent. An' I want it all cash."

Beasley shook his head. He had this boy's exact measure, and knew just
how to handle him.

"The scales don't lie," he said. "But ther', it's the way wi' youse
fellers. You see a chunk o' gold an' you don't see the quartz stickin'
around it. Here, I'll put a hundred an' seventy-six credit an' the
rest cash. I can't speak fairer."

He drew a roll of bills from his hip-pocket and began counting the
three hundred out. He knew the sight of them was the best argument he
could use. It never failed. Nor did it do so now.

Ike grumbled and protested in the foulest language he was capable of,
but he grabbed the dollars when they were handed to him, and stowed
them into his hip-pocket with an eagerness which suggested that he
feared the other might repent of his bargain. And Beasley quickly
swept the precious nuggets away and securely locked them in his safe,
with the certain knowledge that his profit on the deal was more than
cent for cent.

"You'll take rye," he said as he returned his keys to his pocket. "An'
seein' it's your good day, an' it's on me, we'll have it out o' this
thirteen-year-old bottle."

He pushed the bottle across the counter and watched Ike pour himself
out a full "four fingers." The sight of his gluttony made Beasley feel
glad that the thirteen-year-old bottle had been replenished that
morning from the common "rot-gut" cask. After their drink he became
expansive.

"That's an elegant claim of yours, Ike," he said, taking up his
favorite position on the bar. "It's chock full of alluvial. Don't
scarcely need washing. Guess I must ha' paid you two thousand dollars
an' more since--since we got busy. Your luck was mighty busy when they
cast the lots."

"Luck? Guess I'm the luckiest hoboe in this layout," Ike cried with a
confidence that never seemed to require the support of rye whisky.

Beasley's eyes sparkled maliciously.

"How about Pete?" he grinned. He knew that Ike had an utter
detestation of Pete, and did not have to guess at the reason. "I paid
him more than that by fi' hundred. How's that?"

"Tcha'! Pete ain't no account anyways," Ike retorted angrily. "Say, he
pitches his dollars to glory at poker 'most every night. Pete ain't
got no sort o' savee. You don't see