So Casey must spend twenty-four hours in Lund, there to greet men who hailed him joyously at the top of their voices while they were yet afar off, and thumped him painfully upon the shoulders when they came within reach of him.  You may not grasp the full significance of this, unless you have known old and popular stage drivers, soft of heart and hard of fist.  Then remember that Casey had spent months on end alone in the wilderness, working like a lashed slave from sunrise to dark, trying to wrest a fortune from a certain mountain side.  Remember how an enforced isolation, coupled with rough fare and hard work, will breed a craving for lights and laughter and the speech of friends.  Remember that, and don’t overlook the twenty-five thousand dollar check that Casey had pinned safe within his pocket.

Casey had unthinkingly tossed his last dime into his hat for the show people at Rhyolite.  He had not even skinned the coyote, whose hide would have been worth ten or fifteen dollars, as hides go.  In the stress of pulling out of the mud at Red Lake, he had forgot all about the dead animal in his tonneau until his nose reminded him next morning that it was there.  Then he had hauled it out by the tail and thrown it away.  He was broke, except that he had that check in his pocket.

Of course it was easy enough for Casey to get money.  He went to the store that sold everything from mining tools to green perfume bottles tied with narrow pink ribbon.  The man who owned that store also owned the bank next door, and a little place down the street which was called laconically The Club.  One way or another, Dwyer managed to feel the money of every man who came into Lund and stopped there for a space.  He was an honest man, too,—­ or as honest as is practicable for a man in business.

Dwyer was tickled to see Casey again.  Casey was a good fellow, and he never needed his memory jogged when he owed a man.  He paid before he was asked to pay, and that was enough to make any merchant love him.  He watched Casey unpin his vest pocket and remove the check, and he was not too eager to inspect it.

“Good?  Surest thing you know.  Want it cashed, or applied to your old checking account?  It’s open yet, with a dollar and sixty-seven cents to your credit, I believe.  I’ll take care of it, though it’s after banking hours.”

Casey was foolish.  “I’ll take a couple of hundred, if it’s handy, and a check book.  I guess you can fix it so I can get what money I want in Los.  I’m goin’ to have one hell of a time when I git there.  I’ve earned it.”

Dwyer laughed while he inked a pen for Casey’s endorsement.  “Hop to it, Casey.  Glad you made good.  But you’d better let me put part of that in a savings account, so you can’t check it out.  You know, Casey—­remember your weak point.”