"I haven't looked over the figures," said the Colonel, "but as you know, the money end does not concern me so much. We should have a hotel here, worthy of our town, worthy of the people who come here. I cannot adopt a niggardly attitude toward my guests; that goes without saying."
"I appreciate that, Colonel; the bank appreciates it; in fact I feel safe to say the whole town appreciates it. But," he turned to his desk book, "Richard, the Fremont has run behind eight thousand dollars a month for the past year."
"God bless my soul! You don't say so!" cried the Colonel, a little dashed. "I had never figured it out. But improvements—there's the San Antonio—one must strike an average, my dear Oliver."
"The San Antonio is a little ahead, that is true. Does that suggest nothing to you?"
"What do you mean?"
"Are you satisfied that your manager is the best for the position?"
"Watson? Why, he's the best I ever saw! I defy you to find in the United States—yes, or in Europe—a better run, more comfortable hotel than the Fremont!"
"It's well run in that way; but how about this?" said Mills, laying his hand on the statement.
"I cannot afford to be niggardly with my guests," repeated the Colonel, "and I cannot afford to discredit Arguello. The money will come back many times over, later."
"Perhaps. But we are talking about now. And it's a matter of ten or fifteen thousand dollars. I hate to say so, Richard, and I would not hurt your feelings for the world, but the Fremont is carrying all the loan it can stand. In fact it is carrying far more than any other bank would advance on it."
"Oh, that is what bothers you! I see!" cried the Colonel, relieved. "I am glad to know what all the pother is about. Why, God bless your soul, put it on the rancho. You bankers are so confounded hidebound, Oliver. Just because it is to be used for the hotel! I don't care a continental red cent what I borrow it on."
Mills picked up a heavy paper knife and balanced it carefully,
