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The newcomer, slight, short and with greying hair, nodded back a greeting.

“Oh, I guess he’s on the bum around. He’ll be along. Glad to see you, Mr. McLagan,” he said, turning quickly and almost deferentially to the engineer. “Opened up a gusher yet?”

McLagan’s eyes twinkled as he rose from his protesting chair.

“Guess I’ll be asked that haf a century of times before the night’s out. No, boy,” he said. “The old earth’s holding up her secrets and looks like holding ’em years. An’ say, you’ll be doing me real service putting that news around when the boys come in to feed. Put it round quick, while I go and wash. Travelling’s a mighty dirty pastime around Beacon Glory, which is only reasonable.” And he passed out of the office just as a distant bell rang announcing the evening meal.

“Bad” Booker was sitting in his private room behind the outer office. It was a comfortable apartment, almost sumptuous, and seemed to be the natural setting for the personality of this real estate man. He was a heavy creature with a flowing moustache, of which, to judge by the inordinate care he bestowed upon it, he was exceedingly proud. He was fat and everything about him was gross. His general appearance and manner were of extreme good nature, and his smile to this end was of a quality admirably calculated to emphasise it. But Beacon Glory knew the man because, whatever other things Beacon Glory may have lacked, it had a swift estimate of those who were part of its public life. Those whose misfortune made it necessary to come into business contact with Bad Booker hated and detested the man, and more particularly his smile, for they quickly found that the real estate mask was incapable of long concealing the ugly features of the usurer underneath.