THE SONG OF THE LARK
to pace the lobby, his hands behind him, watching the bronze elevator doors like a hawk. At last Captain Harris issued from one of them, tall and imposing, wearing a Stetson and fierce mustaches, a fur coat on his arm, a solitaire glittering upon his little finger and another in his black satin ascot. He was one of the grand old bluffers of those good old days. As gullible as a schoolboy, he had managed, with his sharp eye and knowing air and twisted blond mustaches, to pass himself off for an astute financier, and the Denver papers respectfully referred to him as the Rothschild of Cripple Creek.
Dr. Archie stopped the Captain on his way to breakfast. "Must see you a minute, Captain. Can't wait. Want to sell you some shares in the San Felipe. Got to raise money."
The Captain grandly bestowed his hat upon an eager porter who had already lifted his fur coat tenderly from his arm and stood nursing it. In removing his hat, the Captain exposed a bald, flushed dome, thatched about the ears with yellowish gray hair. "Bad time to sell, doctor. You want to hold on to San Felipe, and buy more. What have you got to raise?"
"Oh, not a great sum. Five or six thousand. I 've been buying up close and have run short."
"I see, I see. Well, doctor, you 'll have to let me_get through that door. I was out last night, and I 'm going to get my bacon, if you lose your mine." He clapped Archie on the shoulder and pushed him along in front of him. "Come ahead with me, and we 'll talk business."
Dr. Archie attended the Captain and waited while he gave his order, taking the seat the old promoter indicated.
"Now, sir," the Captain turned to him, "you don't want to sell anything. You must be under the impression that I 'm one of these damned New England sharks that get their pound of flesh off the widow and orphan. If you 're a
348
