Part 3

“I see! Of course!” she exclaimed eagerly. “Henderson learned of this and at once went out on his own hook to secure all the mines and claims possible containing this grade of ore! And Dickover is here in San Francisco to buy everything in sight before news of the discovery has broken! Is that it?”

“You’ve said it. So far all’s straight. Got any questions ready?”

“Heaps!” The girl laughed, then instantly grew grave. “Dickover knows that Henderson is a traitor and has been buying Apex Crown; yet Dickover is ready to buy our stock, make the Apex Crown a great success and enrich Henderson! Why?”

“I’ve doped it out; I struck the same snag myself—and others, too. Like this! If Dickover gets our block of stock, he controls that mine. He can let it lie useless for years, until Henderson has given up hope and sold out the stock he’s been buying. And until that happens, Dickover lets the mine lie dead for five years or fifty! Savvy?”

“Sure, so far.” Miss Ferguson frowned. “It’s getting involved, though. The salient fact is the human equation—Dickover wants to smash Henderson first, then develop the mine!”

“Exactly. He knows that Henderson is loaded to the guards with the stock and is taking all that’s offered.”

“Then why does Dickover threaten to throw all _his_ stock on the market? How would that smash anybody? Henderson could simply buy it up, control the mine, and develop it by means of the new chemical process!”

Bowen leaned back in his chair and puffed for a moment.

“Right there is where I had to make another quick guess, Miss Ferguson. But I think I’m right. I _know_ I’m right! From what I remember of the Apex Crown affair, a fair quantity of stock was issued in the early days; close to half a million, I believe. We can verify the figures this afternoon. With Henderson and Dickover scrapping over a mere block of ten thousand shares, you see they have absorbed about all of that stock that was lying around loose. Call it about two hundred thousand shares or more to each of them.

“Now, when Dickover issued his Apex Crown ultimatum, I thought about what I’d do if I were in his place and with his power; and upon that it flashed over me exactly what _he_ would do—the only thing he logically could do, upon such a threat as his! Remember that Dickover knows human nature and gambles on it; remember, also, he has agents or brokers in every large city in the country, and can strike contemporaneously at a moment’s notice.”

“All clear so far,” said the girl quietly. “And your prophecy—”

“Is this: By to-day the stock is probably up to ten cents or more, and none offered. Dickover to-day issues orders to throw overboard the stock, beginning to-morrow morning; to throw overboard in such big blocks that Henderson will know where it’s coming from. He’ll hammer down the market, hammer it down until the stock is back to two cents or less.

“And what happens? Will Henderson buy everything in sight? No. He won’t have the money or the nerve. He’s a traitor, remember, and a traitor has a yellow spot somewhere. Henderson will think that the Apex Crown ore has proven unfit for going through the new chemical process; or he may think that Dickover has put some string on the property that makes the stock worthless; he may think any of a dozen things, and he _will_. He’ll think all of ’em! Instead of finding himself grown rich by a sneaky, slick trick, he’ll find Dickover fighting him—and his nerve will go.”

“Possibly,” agreed the girl, watching Bowen with fascinated eyes. “But it’s a poor thing to bet on, isn’t it? What’s the rest of the prophecy?”

Bowen smiled grimly. “Quite logical. Henderson will find that he gave me five thousand of his cash when he’s going to need it all. Before the market is quite smashed down to its original state, he’s going to loosen up on a big bunch of his stock. He’ll argue that at the right moment. When Dickover begins to buy in again, he, too, can step forward and get back his own—with some of Dickover’s to boot; enough to give him control.”

“And,” cried the girl quickly, “Dickover knows that he’ll think so! With all his organization and power, Dickover will step in first! Before Henderson can do it, Dickover has done it. Is that the idea?”

“Exactly.” Bowen puffed for a moment; that cigar was too good to be allowed to die. “Exactly. If Henderson does have the nerve to stick, Dickover will beat him anyhow. Now do you see what the game of Dickover is?”

“I see. And I think I agree with you—Henderson will lack nerve. He’ll begin to unload his stock at four cents, will unload more at three, and throw off all of it at two to break even. Then, when he’s cleaned out of the stock, Dickover will rob the whole market!”

“Bully for you!” exclaimed Bowen eagerly. “I knew you’d understand!”

“Thank you.” She smiled, a trifle wanly. He saw that the strain of understanding had been telling upon her. After all, that block of stock was hers! “But I don’t understand yet why you refused Dickover’s offer for my stock; and I don’t understand why you sold him a mine at half its value!”

“I sold him that mine because I was going to need the money right after lunch—and need it badly.” Bowen rose. “As for why I refused his offer, let that go until we have lunch. I’ve licked Henderson and Dickover this morning, which is going some; now I must add you to the list—and I need a stimulant before opening fire.”

The girl made no demur. They sought the dining-room together; Bowen, no less than Alice Ferguson, was keyed up to a high tension by the big game, and the biggest game was still ahead of him—the hardest work.

Midway through luncheon, Bowen was sought by special messenger and was handed a folded message. He put it in his pocket without reading, and smiled across the table.

“Information for which I phoned. I don’t think much of brokers as a class, but I do know of one man in the game whom I’d trust—Gus Saunders. Ever hear of him?”

The girl shook her head. Bowen switched the subject. He took pains to impress upon Miss Ferguson that he was not the magnate she had thought him. He felt impelled to stand upon a frankly honest footing with this level-eyed girl; he could do nothing else.

“And it was meeting Dickover on the train and here at the hotel,” she said, laughter twinkling in her eyes, “that started you on this high finance wave? Good gracious! If I’d known that when you called up about the stock—”

“Well? What would you have said?”

“Just what I did say!” she finished with a laugh. “Now here comes our coffee. Can’t you possibly unburden your mind yet? I can’t stand this suspense a moment longer!”

Bowen grinned and slipped the waiter a gold piece. They were in a corner of the big dining-room, and to themselves.

“Here, my friend! Keep everybody away from us and don’t bother us until I call you!” The waiter bobbed and departed, and Bowen drew a sigh of relief. “Now! We’ll wade in.”

He produced the packet of notes, and Dickover’s check for thirty thousand, and laid them on the table before him. Then he drew forth the message that had been brought him.

“Miss Ferguson, my proposition is simply this: That we go into partnership on the Apex Crown. This message is from Gus Saunders. The Apex Crown issued five hundred thousand shares, and the original holders unloaded everything about a year ago, so that the entire issue is on the market—or is divided between Henderson and Dickover. We’ve already figured out that by to-morrow most of that stock will be back on the market temporarily.”

“Until Dickover can swallow it at a gulp,” she added.

“Sure. That mine is highly valuable property—if the chemical process has really been discovered. That’s what I’m gambling on; I’m certain that in about another fortnight the mining world will get the news. So, then, let’s get busy! I propose that you and I step in at the psychological moment, when Dickover has scared Henderson into unloading; that we make a bold strike and gobble about three hundred thousand shares of that stock at the lowest figure. In short, that we grab the Apex Crown for ourselves! Are you game?”

He was leaning forward, his lean face tensed, his gray eyes holding her gaze.

For a moment she did not respond. When she did answer, her words surprised him.

“Mr. Bowen, I—I don’t see why you make this proposition to me. You have enough money there on the table to handle the affair yourself. I cannot put any money into it.”

“What! Then you don’t want to go into it? You have no faith in my theories?”

“Please don’t misunderstand me!” she replied quickly. “I’ve every faith in you. But I cannot enter upon a partnership where I can give nothing. Because I’m a girl, you’re generous to me—and I don’t want people to be generous; I can fight my own battles—”

From Bowen broke a sudden ejaculation.

“Great Jehu! Of all the nonsense I ever heard, this is the worst!”

“Well! Isn’t it true?”

“No!” he exclaimed savagely. “It is not true! Not as you think. See here, don’t you like the scheme? Don’t you realize that it’s a big thing if successful?”

“Of course I do. But—if I were not a woman, you’d not offer this partnership.”

It was Bowen’s turn to take the aggressive; he did it with a vim and earnestness that brought the color flooding into her cheeks.

“You’re right. I wouldn’t! It’s because you _are_ a woman that I want you for partner in this business; I need you! Fighting for myself, I’d be apt to do any fool trick. But with your interests hanging on mine, fighting for you as well as for myself, saddled with the responsibility of your trust and your future—why, I’d fight like _hell_! Excuse me. I didn’t mean that profanely, but literally.

“I tell you frankly, Miss Ferguson, you’d be an inspiration to any man! I don’t talk like this to every woman. I’ve never _felt_ like this before in my life. I never met you before, that’s the reason! When I say I need you for a partner, I mean just that.

“Get angry if you want to; I can’t help it. This isn’t a question of what money you can put in. You can put in your block of stock, for that matter; the rest is personality, outbalancing all the money on earth! You can help me with your advice, your character. I’m not offering you charity, God knows!

“Now, it’s up to you—my cards are on the table. Say no, and I’ll give you ten thousand for your stock. Say yes, and we’ll go into the game as fighting partners. Which is it?”

In his appeal was force and something better than force—earnestness.

Alice Ferguson recognized it. She worked for her living, and had learned to know something of what might lie beneath the words of a man. She saw that Bowen’s speech might be crude and a bit too frank; but she saw that he meant it. She read down to the good honest soul of the man from Tonopah, and found honesty there. She realized that he did indeed need her; that it would be a coward’s part to fail him. And he was a man to trust.

“Yes,” she said, her eyes grave.

Bowen relaxed suddenly, drew a long breath like a sigh. He had been tremendously keyed up to that moment.

“Then let’s go,” he said, rising. “Let’s go see Gus Saunders.”

VI—POTENTIAL MILLIONAIRES.

Once they were settled in a taxicab, Bowen produced the five thousand in notes, removed the rubber-bands from the package, and counted out twenty fifties.

“Here.” He handed the girl ten of the yellow-backs. “I need expense money and so do you. Five hundred apiece will do.”

“But—”

“No time to be squeamish! We’re partners. This is an advance on the profits.”

Miss Ferguson offered no further objection.

They found Gus Saunders awaiting them in his private office. A conservative broker, this, albeit a young man; by inheritance the junior head of a big firm; clean-cut in every line, and a good sportsman. Bowen had frequently met him at Tonopah.

“Miss Ferguson, allow me to introduce Mr. Saunders. Miss Ferguson is my partner at present, Gus, in a deal we’ve got on hand; looks like a big one, and we need your help.”

“That’s my business,” and the broker smiled.

“There’s a curb stock by the name of—”

“Hold on!” Saunders flung up his hands. “Don’t talk curb stock to me. Don’t touch the stuff, and you ought to know it!”

“Shut up till I get through!” snapped Bowen, and grinned. “You’re refusing no good business that comes along; and I’m paying you any commission on this job that you care to name. I’ll trust your end of it, Gus—and there’s no one else I can trust.”

“Well,” conceded the other, “let’s hear about it.”

“Neither Miss Ferguson nor I are very wise to the brokerage game,” pursued Bowen, “but we’ve doped out a theory and a course of action, and if it’s O. K.’d by you, and if it is feasible, then you can shoot ahead. To-morrow there is going to be some whopping big activity in Apex Crown, both here and at Los Angeles.

“Everybody is going to unload that stuff; the market is to be crammed down to two cents or under—probably under. At two cents, the man who’s behind the move figures on jumping in and getting control of the mine. Savvy? All right.

“Now, we want you to step in ahead of him. When that stock touches three cents, step softly and begin to buy. At two cents grab it with both hands. Keep on grabbing until the price goes up again to ten—”

“Just one minute, please!” broke in Miss Ferguson excitedly. “If this activity does not begin until to-morrow, why can’t we begin to-day? Every share we get is going to count for control of the mine, Mr. Bowen. If we can get some to-day, each of our friends will think the other man is buying it.”

“Good,” assented Bowen crisply. “Now, Gus, will you handle it for us? You have plenty of agents, and can pull the strings at the right moment without trouble.”

The broker chuckled. “This is the first time I ever manipulated curb stocks, Bob! But we’ll tackle it. You don’t want to buy two-cent stocks on a margin, I suppose?”

Bowen emitted a sarcastic grunt, and drew forth his cash and checks.

“Here are two checks Dickover handed me this morning,” and he was not above feeling an inner satisfaction at the broker’s quickly concealed surprise, “and some cash. An even thirty-four thousand, five hundred in all. Will that turn the deal?”

“What do you folks think you’re buying—Amalgamated Motors? This ought to buy the Apex Crown outright—half of it ought to buy all the shares on the market!”

“Half of it won’t,” said Bowen grimly. “And you take out your commission before the money evaporates, because we haven’t any more! But you get us control of that mine, and as much more as the cash will let you buy.”

“All right. Let’s sign up the orders. Do you want to stick around here and get my reports as they come in?”

“Not me,” said Bowen emphatically. “Bob Bowen does not intend to become a hanger-on and a parasite, with his nerves snapping and bursting all to h—all to thunder! You call me up at the Palace when I’m broke or when the deal is over.”

Ten minutes later Bowen and Miss Ferguson returned to the street.

“Please don’t call a taxi!” The girl laughed. “It’s such—such an awful waste of money—and I’d much sooner walk!”

“We’ll be millionaires on this deal; we should worry! However, I’m with you. Let’s walk. Where next?”

“Where? Why, I’ll have to get back to the office—”

“The office? And you a potential millionaire?”

She laughed, and not nervously this time. Bowen’s air was infectious.

“I think I’ll hang on to that office, Mr. Bowen! Anyway, I’ve promised to turn out some work by to-night.”

They walked along in silence until they reached the Crothers Building. At the entrance the girl paused and turned to Bowen.

“You haven’t told me what you expect to do with that mine—when we get it!”

“Do! Why, what did you suppose? Work it by the new chemical process, of course! Or else sell it outright; once the process is on the market, a mine like the Apex Crown will be a bargain at a million! Dickover knows. He said the stock would be worth five dollars a share—when he got ready to make it worth that!”

“Very well.” Miss Ferguson put out her hand. “I’ll say good-by for this time and get back to work. You’ll let me know?”

“You bet I will!” exclaimed Bowen heartily, seeking a pretext for detaining her, but finding none.

He strode along to the Palace with his head in the clouds. Come to think of it, he had earned an afternoon of loafing!

All the previous day he had been watching his plans go from bad to worse, despite the puff he had received in the paper. But at nine o’clock this morning things had begun to move, and they had continued to move with lightning rapidity. His brain had been on the jump keeping one step ahead. For five hours he had been under a growing mental strain which had told tenfold upon his iron-bound physical self.

In five hours he had taken in thirty-five thousand, five hundred dollars, most of it from a man whom he could never have approached in an ordinary way. The whole thing had started with his meeting on the limited with Dickover and the drummer. And now the majority of that money had been laid out on a gamble which might—might—return millions! If he could grab enough of Henderson’s stock and Dickover’s stock combined, at the moment both men had unloaded; if he could step in ahead of Dickover and at the proper moment get control—

“I’ve got to stop thinking about this thing,” he muttered fiercely. “It’s got my brain turning handsprings. There’s nothing for me to do, anyhow! Everything is in the hands of Gus Saunders now. I need a bracer, and I’m going to get it. Then I’ll buy some magazines and loaf a while.”

Bowen was the type of man who takes a drink only when he really needs it, and does not need it often. Now he needed it, and straightway got it. Then he visited a few shops. Having bought some clothes and certain other things of which he stood in need, he returned to the hotel, deposited most of his five hundred in the hotel safe, and settled down in the lobby over some magazines.

For half an hour he read and let his jangled nerves relax. He refused utterly to look up Apex Crown in the papers.

Suddenly he realized that his own name was being called by an evanescent page with a tray. “Mr. Bow-en! Mr. Bow-en!” Rising, Bowen attracted the attention of the buttoned autocrat and was handed a card. It read:

“Oliver Hazard Perry Cheadle, Mineralogist.”

“The gentleman’s at the desk? Send him up to my room in five minutes.”

Bowen betook himself to the elevator. Who was Oliver Hazard Perry Cheadle? The name was totally unknown to him. Arriving at his room, he sought the telephone directory, but found no such name listed.

Mr. O. H. P. Cheadle proved to be a plump, chalky-faced little man with the bland countenance of a cherub. His eyelids blinked behind thick spectacles. His linen was dirty to a degree. He spoke with a slow hesitance in the selection of words. He shook hands with a limp, flaccid grip.

“Mr. Bowen, may I request—er—a few moments of your—er—time? You are a very busy man, I know, but I believe that I have a—er—a proposition to interest you. I read of your being here in—er—the paper—”

“Sit down and rest your heels,” said Bowen cordially, laughing to himself.

So here was another result of his publicity! It was something to be a public character, to be classed with the great Dickover!

Mr. Oliver Hazard Perry Cheadle, like a solemn little owl, went directly to business. He had just come to town from Arizona. He had a mine to sell. He had seen by the paper that Bob Bowen, of Tonopah, was heavily interested in low-grade silver properties. His holdings were not silver, but were copper-zinc, and he was so badly in need of ready money, _et cetera_.

Bowen heard him out. After all, why not have a crack at everything that offered? Zinc-copper ore was not unattractive in prospect.

“Besides, I’ve nothing to keep me busy,” he thought. And said aloud, “Let’s see the samples.”

Mr. Cheadle was apologetic. The samples and assayer’s report were all at his own lodgings. He had not ventured to think that Mr. Bowen—er—would be interested offhand, and—

“Well, let’s go have a look,” said Bowen, rising. The humility of Mr. Cheadle was slightly annoying. “Where are you stopping? Oh, don’t protest, man; I’m free for the day.”

It appeared that Mr. Cheadle was stopping at a rooming-house just off Sutter Street. Together the two men descended to the street, where the magnate hailed a taxicab. Bob Bowen, of Tonopah, believed in enjoying affluence while he had it.

The taxi sped out Sutter, crossed Van Ness, and a few blocks farther on veered to the left and halted before one of the extremely old-fashioned residences, high off the sidewalk, which in this section of the city had escaped the fire.

Being a stranger to San Francisco, Bob Bowen did not realize that they had entered upon what in these latter days had become the Japanese quarter; nor, had he known, would the fact have meant anything to him. He felt a mingled repulsion and interest in Oliver Hazard Perry Cheadle. It was entirely reasonable that an impecunious Hassayamper would have sought just such a dingy, antiquated rooming-house as this.

And Bowen reasoned why not pass the good work along? He himself had come to town practically broke; a clap on the back from Dickover had put him on the path to fortune. Why not lend the same halo to Oliver Hazard Perry Cheadle?

Thus thinking, with a righteous glow of generosity warming the cockles of his heart, Bob Bowen allowed himself to be ushered into a dark hallway. To Bowen’s surprise, the hallway seemed roofed by stars and specks of light; he was only dimly conscious of a crushing blow on the head that sent him reeling and staggering into utter darkness.

VII—A PAIR OF PROFITEERS.

When a man is hit on the back of the head, hard enough to knock him out without any error, it hurts.

Bob Bowen discovered this fact with a vengeance. He had never before been hit on the head with malice prepense; and when he came to himself he was slow in realizing what had happened, and why. He was conscious of a light, and also of a keenly stabbing headache. There seemed to be a lump of some consequence behind his right ear.

The light presently made itself clear as coming from a gas-jet against the wall. Bowen was quite uncertain about his perspective, but finally decided that he was lying on the floor. Pain in his wrists and ankles told him that, incredible though it seemed, his wrists and ankles were lashed together too tightly for comfort.

“Guess I’m not supposed to be comfortable,” he murmured, with the ghost of a smile.

The murmur produced an effect.

Into the area of gaslight above Bowen appeared a face. It was a plump but chalky face, the face of Oliver Hazard Perry Cheadle. Gone were the thick spectacles and the bland, cherubic expression. In the stead of them there was a leering grin that quite transfigured the erstwhile mineralogist from Arizona.

“Dropped you!” said Mr. Cheadle, with a complete absence of hesitation or culture. “You poor fish! Dropped you like a inner-cent babe, I did! Mebbe Henderson won’t grin when he lamps that mug of yours. But why you don’t carry more cash in your pocket, I don’t see—”

The voice died away, and the livid face. Bowen felt unconsciousness swirling upon him; but before his senses lapsed, he realized that things are seldom what they seem, and that in his first half-amused judgment of Mr. Cheadle he had made a grievous error. Then he fell asleep, entirely satisfied on that point.

When he wakened again he saw through half-closed lids that now it was broad daylight. Hearing the voices of two men in the room, and recognizing both voices, Bowen did not open his eyes fully. Instead, he shut them again and kept them shut for a time.