Now we're told that you've been buyin' at fourteen cents.
It's our business to find out which end up you're playin' this market."

"Oh, rot!" roared Lamson. "Hops are fourteen cents now. I'm buying a few
to hold 'em. If I can afford to take the risk, I'm entitled to the
profit."

"The bank knows that hops are eighteen cents to-day," broke in Kitsap.

"That's another lie," yelled the enraged Lamson, and the ranchers
laughed at the unconscious admission.

"Is it?" said Kitsap quietly. "Do you dare to bet on it?"

"I'll bet you a hundred dollars," roared the rancher, "that you can't
get over fourteen cents for hops in this valley this fall."

"I will bet you that amount that I can get at least sixteen cents for
the Indians on the reservation."

"Where's your money?" said Lamson, drawing out a roll of bills.

Kitsap had not looked for this. He was puzzled for a moment. Then he
drew forth a pocket check-book, signed a check, and handed it to an
Indian rancher, who endorsed it. Turning to Lamson, Kitsap said:

[Illustration: _Copyrighted by E. S. Curtis, Seattle_

"ON ALL SIDES THE HOP-PICKERS WERE MAKING MERRY"]

"Will this do, or shall I telephone the cashier to assure its payment?"

"It's good," said Lamson.

"Very well. But if you are so sure about the price of hops, Mr. Two
Lies, why don't you make it two to one that I can't get seventeen
cents?"

"That's my money!" and Lamson began counting out another hundred.

"Or three to one that I can't get eighteen cents?"

"It goes!"

"Or four to one that I can't get nineteen cents?"

"Yes; or five to one that you can't get twenty," roared the exasperated
planter.

"Five to one," replied Kitsap. "And if I win, I will throw your money in
silver from the steps of the reservation school to the Indian children."

Kitsap noted the effect on the Indians in the room as the money was
placed in the hands of the town marshal. He knew how every red man on
the reservation would work for twenty-cent hops now.

But the Indian was not through with the white man. He turned on him
again.

"If you think the bank lied when it said eighteen cents, there is a
telephone. Call up the cashier at his home. He sent me here to tell the
white men and Indians who are our clients. Ask him for yourself."

Lamson and the three buyers noted the words "Our clients." To Lamson it
brought identification of the Indian as Johnny Kitsap, the clerk; to the
buyers it was just mysterious enou