expensive, too,” Webster answered, handing his cigar-case to his friend—who helped himself and said:
“So you've made your pile, eh, Jack?”
“Do you suppose I would have come back to Colorado without money? Haven't you lived long enough, Neddy, to realize that when a man has money he never knows where to go to spend it? It's so blamed hard to make up one's mind, with all the world to choose from, and so the only place I could think of was the old Engineers' Club in Denver. There, at least, I knew I would find one man of my acquaintance—an old granny named Neddy Jerome. Yes, Neddy, I knew I would find you playing solitaire, with your old heart beating about seven times an hour, your feet good and warm, and a touch of misery around your liver from lack of exercise.”
Jerome bit the end of his cigar and spat derisively. “How much have you made?” he demanded bluntly, “It's none of your business, but I'll tell you because I love you, Neddy. I've made one hundred thousand dollars.”
“Chicken-feed,” Jerome retorted.
Webster glanced around. “I thought at first nothing had changed in the old place,” he said, “but I see I was mistaken.”
“Why, what's wrong, Jack?”
“Why, when I was here before, they used to ask a man if he had a mouth—and now they ask him how much money he's made, where he made it, and—why, hello, Mose, you black old scoundrel, how do you do? Glad to see you. Take the order, Mose: some milk and vichy for Mr. Jerome, and a——”
“Yassuh, yassuh,” Mose interrupted, “an' a Stinger for you, suh.”
“Gone but not forgotten,” breathed Mr. Webster, and walled his eyes piously after the fashion of one about to say grace before a meal. “How sweet a thing is life with a club servant like old black Mose, who does things without an order. I feel at home—at last.”
“Johnny,” Jerome began again, “I've been combing the mineral belt of North and South America for you for a month.”
“Why this sudden belated interest in me?”
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