“It sure does,” Shorty agreed.

“And that’s the very point,” Smoke went on triumphantly.  “If it makes you wonder, it will make others wonder.  And when they wonder they’ll come a-running.  By your own wondering you prove it’s sound psychology.  Now, Shorty, listen to me; I’m going to hand Dawson a package that will knock the spots out of the egg-laugh.  Come on inside.”

“Hello,” said Sanderson, as they re-entered.  “I thought I’d seen the last of you.”

“Now what is your lowest figure?” Smoke asked.

“Twenty thousand.”

“I’ll give you ten thousand.”

“All right, I’ll sell at that figure.  It’s all I wanted in the first place.  But when will you pay the dust over?”

“To-morrow, at the Northwest Bank.  But there are two other things I want for that ten thousand.  In the first place, when you receive your money you pull down the river to Forty Mile and stay there the rest of the winter.”

“That’s easy.  What else?”

“I’m going to pay you twenty-five thousand, and you rebate me fifteen of it.”

“I’m agreeable.”  Sanderson turned to Shorty.  “Folks said I was a fool when I come over here an’ town-sited,” he jeered.  “Well, I’m a ten thousand dollar fool, ain’t I?”

“The Klondike’s sure full of fools,” was all Shorty could retort, “an’ when they’s so many of ’em some has to be lucky, don’t they?”

Next morning the legal transfer of Dwight Sanderson’s town-site was made—­“henceforth to be known as the town-site of Tra-Lee,” Smoke incorporated in the deed.  Also, at the Northwest Bank, twenty-five thousand of Smoke’s gold was weighed out by the cashier, while half a dozen casual onlookers noted the weighing, the amount, and the recipient.

In a mining-camp all men are suspicious.  Any untoward act of any man is likely to be the cue to a secret gold strike, whether the untoward act be no more than a hunting trip for moose or a stroll after dark to observe the aurora borealis.  And when it became known that so prominent a figure as Smoke Bellew had paid twenty-five thousand dollars to old Dwight Sanderson, Dawson wanted to know what he had paid it for.  What had Dwight Sanderson, starving on his abandoned town-site, ever owned that was worth twenty-five thousand?  In lieu of an answer, Dawson was justified in keeping Smoke in feverish contemplation.

By mid-afternoon it was common knowledge that several score of men had made up light stampeding-packs and cached them in the convenient saloons along Main Street.  Wherever Smoke moved, he was the observed of many eyes.  And as proof that he was taken seriously, not one man of the many of his acquaintance had the effrontery to ask him about his deal with Dwight Sanderson.  On the other hand, no one mentioned eggs to Smoke.  Shorty was under similar surveillance and delicacy of friendliness.