“Better take the money now，” Leclaire argued. “Take youtwo years to dig it out the hole， an’ all that time you mightbe hatchin’ teeny little baby ostriches an’ pulling feathersout the big ones.”
O’Brien considered the proposition and nodded approval.
Curly Jim looked gratefully at Leclaire and refilled theglasses.
“Hold on there！” spluttered Mucluc Charley， whosetongue was beginning to wag loosely and trip over itself. “Asyour father confessor—there I go—as your brother—Ohell！” He paused and collected himself for another start. “Asyour frien’—business frien’， I should say， I would suggest，rather—I would take the liberty， as it was， to mention—Imean， suggest， that there may be more ostriches ...
O hell！” He downed another glass， and went on morecarefully. “What I’m drivin’ at is ... what am I drivin’ at？”
He smote the side of his head sharply half a dozen timeswith the heel of his palm to shake up his ideas. “I got it！”
he cried jubilantly. “Supposen there’s slathers more’n tenthousand dollars in that hole！”
O’Brien， who apparently was all ready to close thebargain， switched about.
“Great！” he cried. “Splen’d idea. Never thought of it all bymyself.” He took Mucluc Charley warmly by the hand. “Goodfrien’！ Good ’s’ciate！” He turned belligerently on Curly Jim.
“Maybe hundred thousand dollars in that hole. You wouldn’trob your old frien’， would you， Curly？ Course you wouldn’t.
I know you—better’n yourself， better’n yourself. Le’s haveanother： We’re good frien’s， all of us， I say， all of us.”
And so it went， and so went the whisky， and so wentCurly Jim’s hopes up and down. Now Leclaire argued infavour of immediate sale， and almost won the reluctantO’Brien over， only to lose him to the more brilliantcounter-argument of Mucluc Charley. And again， it wasMucluc Charley who presented convincing reasons for thesale and Percy Leclaire who held stubbornly back. A littlelater it was O’Brien himself who insisted on selling， whileboth friends， with tears and curses， strove to dissuadehim. The more whiskey they downed， the more fertile ofimagination they became. For one sober pro or con theyfound a score of drunken ones； and they convinced oneanother so readily that they were perpetually changingsides in the argument.
The time came when both Mucluc Charley and Leclairewere firmly set upon the sale， and they gleefully obliteratedO’Brien’s objections as fast as he entered them. O’Briengrew desperate. He exhausted his last argument and satspeechless. He looked pleadingly at the friends who haddeserted him. He kicked Mucluc Charley’s shins under thetable， but that graceless hero immediately unfolded a newand most logical reason for the sale. Curly Jim got pen andink and paper and wrote out the bill of sale. O’Brien satwith pen poised in hand.
“Le’s have one more，” he pleaded. “One more before Isign away a hundred thousan’ dollars.”
Curly Jim filled the glasses triumphantly. O’Briendowned his drink and bent forward with wobbling pen toaffix his signature. Before he had made more than a blot，he suddenly started up， impelled by the impact of an ideacolliding with his consciousness. He stood upon his feetand swayed back and forth before them， reflecting in hisstartled eyes the thought process that was taking placebehind. Then he reached his conclusion. A benevolentradiance suffused his countenance. He turned to the farodealer， took his hand， and spoke solemnly.
“Curly， you’re my frien’. There’s my han’. Shake. Ol’
man， I won’t do it. Won’t sell. Won’t rob a frien’. No sonof-a-gun will ever have chance to say Marcus O’Brienrobbed frien’ cause frien’ was drunk. You’re drunk， Curly，an’ I won’t rob you. Jes’ had thought—never thought itbefore—don’t know what the matter ’ith me， but neverthought it before. Suppose， jes’ suppose， Curly， my ol’
frien’， jes’ suppose there ain’t ten thousan’ in whole damnclaim. You’d be robbed. No， sir； won’t do it. Marcus O’Brienmakes money out of the groun’， not out of his frien’s.”
Percy Leclaire and Mucluc Charley drowned the farodealer’s objections in applause for so noble a sentiment.
They fell upon O’Brien from either side， their armslovingly about his neck， their mouths so full of wordsthey could not hear Curly’s offer to insert a clause in thedocument to the effect that if there weren’t ten thousandin the claim he would be given back the differencebetween yield and purchase price. The longer they talkedthe more maudlin and the more noble the discussionbecame. All sordid motives were banished. They werea trio of philanthropists striving to save Curly Jim fromhimself and his own philanthropy. They insisted that hewas a philanthropist. They refused to accept for a momentthat there could be found one ignoble thought in all theworld. They crawled and climbed and scrambled over highethical plateaux and ranges， or drowned themselves inmetaphysical seas of sentimentality.
Curly Jim sweated and fumed and poured out the whisky.
He found himself with a score of arguments on his hands，not one of which had anything to do with the gold-minehe wanted to buy. The longer they talked the farther awaythey got from that gold-mine， and at two in the morningCurly Jim acknowledged himself beaten. One by one heled his helpless guests across the kitchen floor and thrustthem outside. O’Brien came last， and the three， with armslocked for mutual aid， titubated gravely on the stoop.
“Good business man， Curly，” O’Brien was saying.
“Must say like your style—fine an’ generous， free-handedhospital ... hospital ... hospitality. Credit to you. Nothin’
base ’n graspin’ in your make-up. As I was sayin’—”
But just then the faro dealer slammed the door.
The three laughed happily on the stoop. They laughedfor a long time. Then Mucluc Charley essayed speech.
“Funny—laughed so hard—ain’t what I want to say.
