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 ’em. Are you Capital, and will you build me a factory and supply the sinews of war? That, young friend, is what I’m getting at.”

Angus considered. One never discovered opportunities by refusing investigation. People made money by manufacturing novelties. He studied the man again briefly.

“I’ll look,” he said.

The man swayed back and forth, and then he grinned—after which he threw back his head and laughed, and the laughter was pleasant, infectious. “Young feller,” he said, “if you don’t spend money faster’n you talk I’ll be gray-haired and wobbly before I git a cent…. But I sort of cotton to your looks. Open up your door, Mr. Money, and I’ll show you the thingumbobs.”

For an hour Angus was occupied with the man, examining his ingenuities, listening to his drolleries. At the end of that time he said, “A factory would benefit Rainbow. I think you have things which would sell…. Go talk to Dave Wilkins.” That was all; no promises—no false hopes extended. Yet the inventor was satisfied.

“Son,” said Mr. Verry, for that was the man’s name, “folks has to do a sight of minin’ in you ’fore they git to mineral, but I calc’late when they hit a nugget it’s eighteen-carat fine.”

Angus looked after the departing man with a hint of a smile on his lips. He was beginning