He had bonded his mine to New York parties--the Copper-bottom, just to the left of the High Line Trail from Anaconda to Philipsburgh; receiving $10,000 down for a quarter interest, giving option on two-thirds remainder for $50,000, if, after six months' development work, the mine justified its promise.

It had proved all his fancy painted it; he was on his way to the big town, to be paid the balance on the sixteenth, at the office of--where is that letter?
Oh, yes, here it is--"Atwood, Strange & Atwood, 25 Broad St."-- retaining a one-fourth interest.

He was going to see the sights.
Possibly he would take a trip round the world.
Incited by judicious interest of his auditor, he prattled on and on, till the lumberman--( Dick Barton, the name of him)--was possessed with the salient points of his past, present and future; embellished by a flood of detail and personal reminiscence.

It is to be regretted that the main points were inaccurate and apocryphal, the collateral details gratuitous improvisations, introduced for the sake of local color.
"For," Steve reasoned, "evidently this party is a seeker after knowledge; it is better to siphon than to be pumped.

Doubtless it will be as bread upon the waters." Freely did he gush and freely buy--( the bulk of his money, in large bills, was safely wadded at the bottom of the six-shooter scabbard under his arm, his .45 on guard--but his well-filled billbook was much in evidence).