"
"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.
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