f his satisfaction over the
statement and asked another question--this time with his eyes straight
on Jack.

"Is it for sale--now--for money?"

It was Jack's turn to focus his gaze. This was the first time any one
had asked that question in the memory of the oldest inhabitant.

"Well, that depends on what it is wanted for, Mr. Ballantree," laughed
Jack. He had already begun to like the man. "And perhaps, too, on who
wants it. Is it for speculation?"

Ballantree laughed in return. "No--not a square foot of it. I am the
general manager of the Guthrie Steel Company with head-quarters here
in New York. We have been looking for mineral up in that section of
the State, and struck yours. I might as well tell you that I made the
borings myself."

"Are you an expert?" asked Jack. The way people searched his title,
examined his tax receipts and rammed hypodermics into his property
without permission was, to say the least, amusing.

"Been at it thirty years," replied Ballantree in a tone that settled all
doubt on the subject.

"It is a low-grade ore, you know," explained Jack, feeling bound to
express his own doubts of its value.

"No, it's a high-grade ore," returned Ballantree with some positiveness;
"that is, it was when we got down into it. But I'm not here to talk
about percentage--that may come in later. I came to save Mr. Guthrie's
time. I was to bring you down to see him if you were the man and
everything was clean, and if you'll go--and I wouldn't advise you to
stay away--I'll meet you at his office at twelve o'clock sharp; there's
his card. It isn't more than four blocks from here."

Jack took the card, looked on both sides of it, tucked it in his
inside pocket, and said he would come, with pleasure. Ballantree nodded
contentedly, pulled a cigar from his upper breast pocket, bit off one
end, slid a match along his trousers until it burst into flame, held it
to the unbitten end until it was a-light, blew out the blaze, adjusted
his derby and with another nod to Jack--and the magic words--"Twelve
sharp"--passed out into Broadway.

Ten minutes later--perhaps five, for Jack arrived on the run--Jack
bounded into Peter's bank, and slipping ahead of the line of depositors,
thrust his overheated face into the opening. There he gasped out a bit
of information that came near cracking the ostrich egg in two, so wide
was the smile that overspread Peter's face.

"What--really! You don't say so! Telegraphed you? Who?"