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The teller read out the figures in a tone of wonderment his youth could not conceal.

“Eighty-two thousand dollars and twenty-five cents,” he said, and passed the figures to his chief for verification.

Cy nodded, while the banker examined the paper.

“That’s about my reckoning,” he said. “I’ll be totin’ another bunch along when I’m through with my summer wash. I’ll just draw a dope of ten thousand right away. Here’s the brief.” He passed a cheque across the counter and waited to receive the money.

Burns looked up.

“Yes,” he said, seriously. “That’s the reckoning, sure. I congratulate you. You certainly have a swell claim.”

Cy nodded. “I certainly have,” he agreed shortly.

The teller passed the roll of bills and he and his chief watched their customer bestow it in a hip pocket. As he did so he revealed a heavy gun strapped about his waist, and Victor, at least, realised it was there as no mere ornament. Cy had said, “God help the son of a mule who gets within a mile of it,” and somehow this watching student of human nature realised that “God’s help” would certainly be required in the circumstances. This man was not the sort to stand at trifles.