Joe Woods buys anything he likes. A decanter
of Bourbon, a box of the very primest Havanas, and a business-like
revolver, lying on the table, indicate his free and easy ways.
Letters in heaps prove that "mon brave Colonel Woods" is even known
to the pretty free-lances who fight under the rosy banner of Venus
Victrix.
In hearty terms, the Californian vents his enthusiasm.
"By the way, my boy, I forgot something." He dashes off a check
and hands it to the young painter.
"Tell me where to send for a man to frame this picture in good
shape," he simply says.
He looks uneasily at the young man, whose senses fail him when he
sees that the check is for five thousand francs.
"Is that all right?" he says cheerfully, nudging Armand in the ribs.
"Cash on delivery, you know. I want another by and by. I'll pick
out a picture I want copied. I'm going to build me a bachelor
ranch on Nob Hill: Ophir Villa." He grins over some pet "deal" in
his favorite Comstock. Dulcet memories.
For Colonel Joe Woods is a man of "the Golden Days of the Pacific."
He too has "arrived."
The boy murmurs his thanks. "Now look here, I've got to run over
to the Cafe Anglais, and see some men from the West. You give me
your house number.
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