In due season he invited Uncle Jap to dine
with him at the Paloma Hotel, in San Lorenzo. The old man, with the
hayseed in his hair, and the stains of bitumen upon his gnarled hands,
ate and drank of the best, seeing a glorified vision of his Lily
crowned with diamonds at last. The vision faded somewhat when
Nathaniel began to talk dollars and cents. Even to Uncle Jap, unversed
in such high matters as finance, it seemed plain that Leveson &
Company were to have the dollars, and that to him, the star-spangled
epitome of Yankee grit and get-there were to be apportioned the cents.
"Lemme see," he said, with the slow, puzzled intonation of the man who
does not understand; "I own this yere oil----"
"Subject to the mortgage, Mr. Panel, I believe?"
"That don't amount to shucks," said Uncle Jap.
"Quite so. Forgive me for interrupting you."
"I own this yere oil-field, lake I call it, and, bar the mortgage,
it's bin paid for with the sweat of my--soul."
He brought out the word with such startling emphasis, that Nathaniel
nearly upset the glass of fine old cognac which he was raising to his
lips.
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