"There is a girl--she's East now, at school; but, between you and
me, old fellow, I don't know if she is legitimate or not. You know
what old times were."
Colonel Joe grins with a twinge of conscience. He has had his
"beaux-jours."
"I will hold on till the limitation runs out. I don't want to cloud
the title to my mine, with litigation. It comes through Valois."
"You never heard of any Eastern heirs?" Joe remarks, gulping a
"stiffener" of brandy.
"Never," says Hardin, reaching for his hat and cane. "The Judge
died during the war. I believe his boy died in Paris. He has never
turned up. New Orleans is gone to the devil. They are all dead."
"By the way, Judge, excuse me." Woods dashes off a check for Hardin.
"I want to retain you if the 'Shooting Star' people fool with my
working the 'Golden Chariot;' I feel safe in your hands."
Even Hardin can afford to pocket Joe's check. It is a prize. Golden
bait, Joseph.
Woods says "Good-bye," floridly, to his legal friend. He takes a
coupe at the door. "Cute old devil, Hardin; I'll run him down yet,"
chuckles the miner. Joe is soon on his way to the Pacific Mail
Steamship office.
Several gray-headed officials greet the popular capitalist.
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