“He’s getting to be a mighty sure shot,” said Demorest approvingly, looking at his upset can of coffee as he picked up the paper, rolled into a cylindrical wad as tightly as a cartridge, and began to straighten it out.  This was no easy matter, as the sheet had evidently been rolled while yet damp from the press; but Demorest eventually opened it and ensconced himself behind it.

“Nary news?” asked Stacy.

“No.  There never is any,” said Demorest scornfully.  “We ought to stop the paper.”

“You mean the paper man ought to.  We don’t pay him,” said Barker gently.

“Well, that’s the same thing, smarty.  No news, no pay.  Hallo!” he continued, his eyes suddenly riveted on the paper.  Then, after the fashion of ordinary humanity, he stopped short and read the interesting item to himself.  When he had finished he brought his fist and the paper, together, violently down upon the table.  “Now look at this!  Talk of luck, will you?  Just think of it.  Here are we—­hard-working men with lots of sabe, too—­grubbin’ away on this hillside like niggers, glad to get enough at the end of the day to pay for our soggy biscuits and horse-bean coffee, and just look what falls into the lap of some lazy sneakin’ greenhorn who never did a stoke of work in his life!  Here are we, with no foolishness, no airs nor graces, and yet men who would do credit to twice that amount of luck—­and seem born to it, too—­and we’re set aside for some long, lank, pen-wiping scrub who just knows enough to sit down on his office stool and hold on to a bit of paper.”

“What’s up now?” asked Stacy, with the carelessness begotten of familiarity with his partner’s extravagance.

“Listen,” said Demorest, reading.  “Another unprecedented rise has taken place in the shares of the ‘Yellow Hammer First Extension Mine’ since the sinking of the new shaft.  It was quoted yesterday at ten thousand dollars a foot.  When it is remembered that scarcely two years ago the original shares, issued at fifty dollars per share, had dropped to only fifty cents a share, it will be seen that those who were able to hold on have got a good thing.”

“What mine did you say?” asked Barker, looking up meditatively from the dishes he was already washing.

“The Yellow Hammer First Extension,” returned Demorest shortly.

“I used to have some shares in that, and I think I have them still,” said Barker musingly.

“Yes,” said Demorest promptly; “the paper speaks of it here.  ’We understand,’” he continued, reading aloud, “’that our eminent fellow citizen, George Barker, otherwise known as “Get Left Barker” and “Chucklehead,” is one of these fortunate individuals.’”

“No,” said Barker, with a slight flush of innocent pleasure, “it can’t say that.  How could it know?”

Stacy laughed, but Demorest coolly continued:  “You didn’t hear all.  Listen!  ’We say was one of them; but having already sold his apparently useless certificates to our popular druggist, Jones, for corn plasters, at a reduced rate, he is unable to realize.’”