He watched the Colonel drive away with Daphne again by his side.
"Most extraordinary old cuss I ever saw," he remarked to one of his cronies who joined him. This was Marcus Oberman, a brewer from Milwaukee: small, white, wizened, wrinkled, not at all like a brewer, but playing a remarkably good hand at poker. "Fine old chap. He seems to have more interests here than you would think. Make this hotel pay, do you think?"
"Don't see how he can," cackled Oberman, "but he makes us comfortable and that's all that worries me."
"This is going to be a wonderful valley, Oberman, you mark my words. There's no climate like it in the world. And nowhere will you get a combination like this of mountains and the sea. Look at the flowers. It's a garden spot. The day will come when there'll be fine homes all over these foothills. The man who buys real estate and holds it is bound to make money."
"The place is as dead as pickled herring," said Oberman. "Did you ever in your born days see such streets, such lighting, such sewers, such everything? A town of this size! Disgraceful, I call it!"
"They're asleep. Just needs someone to wake them up."
"Well, I'm no alarm clock. I'm having a good tune. As for making money, I know a trick worth two of that." He made a motion as though spreading a hand of cards.
"Now I can prove you wrong there, at any rate," said Boyd. "Come on, you old Dutch pirate; let's find the gang."
The Colonel drove directly to the Clock Building and pulled up.
"I'll be gone some little time," he told Daphne. "If you want, I'll hitch the team and you can play around." But Daphne preferred to sit and wait; so the Colonel entered the bank.
He made his way, bowing to the men behind the grilles, directly to the frosted door that led into Oliver Mills's office. This was customarily on the latch; but an alert and active clerk had already flitted around to slip the bolt, so the Colonel entered without delay.
"Good morning, Oliver," he greeted the banker, who half arose, "I trust I find you well."
