gging impatiently, showing off,
pretending to be afraid of the panting locomotive, body shining like
metal of bronze and aluminum, his nostrils pink as the inside of a
shell, ears twitching, rider and mount one in every movement. Grit stood
with plumy tail erect and waving gently, ears up, red tongue playing
between white teeth, his eyes like jewels; braced on his feet, tiptoe on
his pads, watching the parking of the private car with now and then a
glance of inquiry at Sandy.

Keith stood by the railing of his platform, the darky ready with the
dismounting stool. He surveyed the crowd affably, with the poise of a
successful candidate assured of welcome, waving his hand in demi-salute
to Sandy, Sam and Mormon, lifting his hat graciously to Miranda Bailey.
The man and the car emanated prosperity. Yet, for all the booming of
Casey Town, the finding of pay-ore, the sale of shares, Keith's present
financial status was not all that he trusted it might be within a short
time. It was part of the technique of his profession to assume a mask
and manner of financial success, and of late he had worn these until at
times they jaded him, but they were well designed, well worn, and no one
doubted but that Wilson Keith was a man of ready millions.

Keith was essentially a gambler. He knew that those who bought his
shares were largely tinctured with the same spirit that exists, more or
less, in almost every man. They were amateurs and Keith the
professional, that was the main difference. The average man likes to
believe himself lucky. Keith was no exception. He knew the prevalence of
the trait and traded upon it. Also he knew the gold mining game from
prospect to prospectus and possible profit. But the expert faro-dealer,
after his trick is over, is apt to take his wages to the roulette wheel
of an opposition house and buck a game that his experience tells him is,
like his own, run with the percentages against the player.

Keith had dallied with oil, had speculated, plunged, been persuaded to
invest heavily. He was beginning to have a vague fear of not being so
certain as he would have wished as to which end of the line he had
taken, that of the baited hook, or the end that was attached to the reel
that automatically plays the fish.

He sold gold and he was buying oil. More, he was sinking wells, infected
with the fever of the game, whereas, with his own mines, he was cool
with the poise of the physician who takes count of a pulse. O