Читать книгу The Saint of the Speedway онлайн

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“Cy Liskard,” he went on after a moment, as he beheld a man fling out of the saddle. Then he nodded at the gold scales. “Guess we’ll need them, sure. He’s a big gold winner.”

To a practical student of human nature like Victor Burns, Cy Liskard was of more than common interest. He had come into contact with him in business, and in business only. But, in consequence, he saw the man in his most interesting aspect. For, in his understanding, a man’s business was the best channel through which to discover the real depth of his character.

He had come to know him as one of the many individual gold men of the remoter places which radiated about Beacon. The first time he had encountered the man was just after winter had closed down, when he drove into Beacon with a curious, mongrel team of three utterly inadequate dogs, hauling a home-made sled which bore a goodly burden of raw gold dust of excellent quality. He had come straight to the bank and weighed in his treasure. The transaction had been made with the customary simple formalities, and the man’s credit had been duly opened. At that time Cy had only revealed himself to the banker as a surly, silent creature who had none of the reckless buoyancy of the men who usually came in to sell their dust.