Westralians appear bad
on the face of things, it's true--but don't believe
all you hear of them. There's more than the suspicion
of a 'rig' there. Besides, you haven't a penny in them."
"I wasn't thinking of that," Thorpe told him,
with comprehensive vagueness. "Well, I suppose
you're still coining money," he observed, after a pause.
"Keeping along--keeping along," the broker replied,
cheerfully. "I canna complain." Thorpe looked at him with a
meditative frown. "Well, what are you going to do with it,
after you've got it?" he demanded, almost with sharpness.
The Scotchman, after a surprised instant, smiled. "Oh, I'll
just keep my hands on it," he assured him, lightly.
"That isn't what I mean," Thorpe said, groping after what
he did mean, with sullen tenacity, among his thoughts.
His large, heavy face exhibited a depressed gravity
which attracted the other's attention.
"What's the matter?" Semple asked quickly. "Has anything
gone wrong with you?"
Thorpe slowly shook his head. "What better off do you
think you'll be with six figures than you are with five?"
he pursued, with dogmatic insistence.
Semple shrugged his shoulders. He seemed to have grown
much brighter and gayer of mood in this past twelvemonth.
Apparently he was somewhat stouter, and certainly there was
a mellowed softening of his sharp glance and shrewd smile.
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