bored to death with saber and lance and martingale. We have to have relaxation of some sort, you know, and I have always taken a great deal of interest in what's going on in the bowels of the earth."
"You're certainly some little expert," commented Gamble admiringly, and the Baron inclined his head.
"German efficiency," he replied, and it was difficult to tell if he was poking fun at himself or at the others.
Gamble went to bed early leaving Tom and his guest in front of the blazing, crackling log fire. Tom was sleepy and happy. He was about to doze off when the German's words startled him into immediate and full wakefulness:
"How much will you take for the Yankee Doodle Glory?"
The American looked up sharply. "You want to buy?"
"Yes, Outright. For cash. Name your figure, Mr. Graves."
The latter did not like the other's abrupt, dragooning manner, and—he was a good poker player. He folded his hands behind his head, kicked out his feet towards the full warmth of the fire, and yawned elaborately.
"I don't know as I want to sell," he said finally, with utter carelessness. "I guess I'm sort of stuck on these old Hoodoos. No. I don't know as I want to sell powerfully bad."
"Five hundred thousand?" asked the Baron, taking out check book and fountain pen.
Tom grinned mischievously. "Oh, you carry your munition along, do you? Well, it's no go. I don't want, to sell. At least I don't know that I do. . . yet!"
