“My, no.  This quarter section belongs to my wife, and it’s up to me to make the water connections safe for her.  I can do it.”  Banks set his lips grimly, and his voice shrilled a higher key.  “Yes, sir, even if I have to tunnel through from the Wenatchee.  But I think likely I’ll tap the new High Line and rig a flume with one of these new-style electric pumps.  And my idea would be to hollow out a nice little reservoir, with maybe a fountain, right here on this shoulder alongside the house, and let a sluice and spillways follow the road down.  There’d be water handy then, and to spare, in case Dave’s springs happen to pinch out.”

Morganstein’s glance moved slowly over the sections of road cross-cutting the mountain below, and on up the vale to the distant bench.  Presently he said:  “What are you building over there?  A barn, or is it a winery for your grapes?”

“It’s neither,” answered Banks with sharp emphasis.  “It’s a regular, first-class house.  Dave Weatherbee was counting on striking it rich in Alaska when he drew the plans.  The architect calls it California-Spanish style.  The rooms are built around a court, and we are piping for the fountain now.”

Frederic grew thoughtful.  Clearly an offer of five thousand dollars for Lucky Banks’ option on the Weatherbee tract was inadequate.  After a moment he said:  “What is it going to cost you?”

“Well, sir, counting that house complete, without the furniture, seven thousand would be cheap.”

After that the financier was silent.  He looked at his watch, as they motored down Cerberus, considering, perhaps, the probabilities of a telegram reaching Marcia; but he did not make the venture when they arrived in Wenatchee, and the nearest approach he made to that offer was while he and Banks were waiting at the station for their separate trains.  They were seated together on a bench at the time, and Frederic, having lighted a cigar, drew deeply as though he hoped to gather inspiration.  Then he edged closer and, dropping his heavy hand on the little prospector’s shoulder, said thickly:  “See here, tell me this, as man to man, if you found both those tracts too big to handle, what would you take for your option on the Weatherbee property?”

And Banks, edging away to the end of the seat, answered sharply:  “I can handle both; my option ain’t for sale.”

CHAPTER XXIII

THE DAY OF PUBLICATION

It was a mild evening, the last in February, and Jimmie, who had received two copies of the March issue of Sampson’s Magazine direct from the publisher, celebrated the event by taking the Society Editor canoeing on Lake Washington.  Instead of helping with the bow paddle, of which she was fully capable, Miss Atkins settled against the pillows facing him, with the masterpiece in her lap.  The magazine was closed, showing his name among the specially mentioned on the cover, but she kept the place with her finger.  She had a pretty hand, and it was adorned by the very best diamond that could be bought at Hanson’s for one hundred and fifty dollars.