Yankee Doodle Glory. Why, man, everybody used to poke fun at that particular prospect hole in the Hoodoos. There wasn't a day in the last twenty years when you couldn't have picked up the Yankee Doodle for a grin and a handful of peanuts, and now. . . Wait!"
They were sitting in the little red-and-gold poker room of the Club and just then Newson Garrett was passing by on his way to the library. Tom hailed him through the open door:
"Say, Garrett! Step in here a moment." He showed him the cable. "What d'you make of it? Half a million chilly ducats for the Yankee Doodle Glory!"
"For a controlling interest in it," rectified the exact assayist. Then he shook his head. "Steep price. Too steep. Those Dutchmen are loco. Brand them before they escape."
"Yes, yes," put in Martin Wedekind, "But the Hirschfeld people are not exactly fools. They have mining interests all over the world, and agents, and correspondents. There must be a reason. . ."
"And they seem to be in a devil of a hurry," said Tom. "'Old Man' Truex struck the vein on the first, and to-day is the fifteenth. Let me figure back."
"You got to the Hoodoos on the third."
"Yes. Back in Spokane on the fifth, and gave you the ore sample the same day."
"Yes," Garrett inclined his head. "I made my assay tests on the sixth, while you went back to the Killicott ranch and asked me to hold my report until your return. . ."
"Which was on the eighth. Of course the news of the strike spread," added Tom.
Wedekind looked up suddenly.
