"My working capital, estimated last night, runs about
seventy-five dollars. That wouldn't quite turn the trick, would it?"
The old man's eyes narrowed.
"You mean that seventy-five dollars is all you've got to show for
twelve years?" he asked sharply.
Again, hardly understanding why, Steve flushed. Was a man to be
ashamed that he had not amassed wealth, especially when there had never
been in him the sustained desire for gold? He owed no man a cent, he
made his own way, he asked no favors--and yet there was a glint of
defiance in his eye, a hint of defiance in his tone, when he replied
briefly.
"That's all. I haven't measured life in dollars and cents."
"Then you've missed a damn' good measure for it, my son! I ain't
sayin' it's the only one, but it'll do firs' class. But you needn't
get scared I've gone into the preaching business. . . . An' with that
seventy-five dollars you're startin' out to run a big cow outfit like
this, are you?"
There was a gleam of mockery in the clear blue eyes which Steve gave no
sign of seeing.
"I've got a big job on my hands and I know it," he said quietly. "But
I'm going to see it through."
"There's no question about the size of the job! It's life-size, man's
size--Number Ten size, if you want to put it that way. It wants a real
man to shove it across. Know just how much you're mortgaged for?"
"No.
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