The Mystery Megapack

clerk cried. “There’s a gold mine out there in the Whitecotton tract. If you’re a capitalist, you’re the man I want to talk to. There’s a fortune in that deposit for them that puts it on the market. It won’t take much capital.”
    “What sort of a deposit?”
    “Statuary clay, that’s what. My name’s Lemuel Budkins, and you an’ me ought to get together, for”—his voice raised triumphantly—“I got an option on that twenty acres of land.”
    It cannot be truthfully said that a deposit of sculptor’s modeling clay appealed to Mr. Clackworthy as offering promise of much profit, but it did occur to him that this might, in some way or another, provide the wedge which would pry open the way into Flint Whitecotton’s hoard.
    “When you can spare a little time, Mr. Budkins,” he said, “I’ll be glad to talk things over.”
    “I got time right now,” answered Budkins promptly; “that’s all I have got.” He grabbed two of the traveling bags and led the way up the hotel stairs.
    A few minutes later, his forehead glistening with moisture, his eyes gleaming with the rebirth of dying hopes, he leaned forward in a chair, facing Mr. Clackworthy and The Early Bird, trying to convince them that he held the key to sudden and certain wealth.
    “You see,” said Mr. Budkins, “I got the idee from a feller what was boardin’ down here last summer at my Aunt Mandy’s. He ran across that clay deposit just by accident. Said it was the best statuary clay he ever seen. Him not havin’ any capital, he let me in on it, so we organized a little company, and—”
    “How much capitalization?” inquired Mr. Clackworthy.
    “Oh, we ain’t incorporated yet,” replied Budkins. “Seems like De Vine—that’s my partner’s name—must have hit a snag or mebbe died or something for I ain’t heard from him in most a year. I had two or three nice, encouragin’ letters, an’ then he quit writin’ all of a sudden, but—”
    “How far did you get with your promotion plans?” inquired the master confidence man.
    “Not far, an’ somethin’ has got to be done quick, I took an option on Flint Whitecotton’s twenty acres, an’ it runs out on the first of the month. That’s next Friday. Only paid him a hundred dollars for it, but”—he colored in embarrassment—“the truth is, Mr. Clackworthy, I ain’t got any more money to pay for another option. You see, I let De Vine have four hundred dollars for his expenses, an’—”
    “I gotcha,” interrupted The Early Bird. “You been nicked for four hundred iron men.”
    Mr. Budkins looked puzzled for a moment and then flushed guiltily.
    “I—I sort of begun to have that suspicion,” he admitted haltingly.
    “It ain’t no suspicion; it’s a lead-pipe cinch,” said James. “Consider yourself an enrolled scholar in the School of Experience, an’ a fully initiated member of The Ancient Order of Trimmed Mutts. You been buncoed, bilked, fleeced, flimflammed an’ otherwise deprived of four hundred berries.”
    “My dear James!” reproved Mr. Clackworthy sternly. He turned apologetically to Budkins. “Have you tried to interest—ah—local capital?” he inquired politely.
    “There ain’t no local capital, except what Flint Whitecotton has got squeezed in them two graspin’ fists of his,” Budkins answered bitterly. “He ain’t got no vision; can’t see no further than a dollar can cast a shadow. I tried to get him interested, but he just laughed at me. I tell you, Mr. Clackworthy, it’s a gold mine. Just think—thirty-five dollars a ton just for clay that can be dug off the top of the ground with a shovel. Just think of it! Easier than minin’ coal, an’ coal sellin’ for about six dollars to the ton!”
    Mr. Clackworthy could have reminded him that the consumption of sculptor’s clay would total very few tons a year, that it was but an empty daydream, This, in fact, he proceeded to do, as gently and as kindly as possible.
    “While I am quite certain, Mr. Budkins, that your deposit of sculptor’s clay lacks financial possibilities, I feel almost certain that I can return you the money which you would otherwise lose in the venture, and perhaps some interest besides. I shall let you know this afternoon.”
    Lemuel Budkins’ face mirrored both disappointment and relief; it is hard, sometimes, to surrender a daydream, but five hundred dollars is a great deal of money to a man who hasn’t any. In the case of the hotel clerk, the