And look here,' I
added, as my glance rested on some of the samples of their pastes they
had round them, 'I understand the secrets of all these so-called
patents of yours--there isn't one of them I couldn't imitate. Take
that "Rabsidab," for instance. What is it? Why, a compound of
horseflesh, turnips and popcorn, flavoured with Lazenby's sauce--for
the infringement of which patent you are liable to prosecution--and
coloured with cochineal. Then there's the stuff you label
"Ironcastor,"'--but they shut me up. 'There, take your three thousand
dollars, write us out a receipt for it, and clear.'" "Nine thousand dollars in one day! We've done well," Kelson
ejaculated. "What's the programme for to-morrow?" "Same as to-day and plenty of it," Curtis said, pouring himself out
another glass of champagne and making a vigorous attack on a chicken. "I think I'll let you two fellows do all the work to-morrow, and
content myself here. Waiter! What time's breakfast?" CHAPTER VII

SAN FRANCISCO LADIES AND DIVINATION


Curtis was as good as his word. The following day he remained indoors
eating, and planning what he should eat, whilst Hamar and Kelson went
out with the express purpose of adding to their banking accounts. In a garden in Bryant Street, Hamar saw a man resting on his spade and
mopping the perspiration from his forehead. As he stopped mechanically
to see what was being done, a cold sensation ran up his right leg into
his right hand, the first and third fingers of which were drawn
violently down. With a cry of horror he shrank back. Directly beneath
where he had been standing, he saw, under a fifteen or sixteen feet
layer of gravel soil--water; a huge caldron of water, black and
silent; water, that gave him the impression of tremendous depth and
coldness. "Hulloa! matey, what's the matter?" the man with the spade called out. "Are you looking for your skin, for I never saw any one so completely
jump out of it?" "So would you," Hamar said with a shudder, "if you saw what I do!" "What's that, then?" the man said leering on the ground. "Snakes! That's what I always see when I've got them." "So long as you don't see yourself, there's some chance for you!" Hamar retorted. "What makes you so hot?" "Why, digging!" the man laughed; "any one would get hot digging at
such hard ground as this. As for a little whippersnapper like you,
you'd melt right away and only your nose would remain. Nothing would
ever melt that--there's too much of it." Hamar scowled. "You needn't be insulting," he said, "I asked you a
civil question, and I repeat it. What makes you so hot--when you
should be cold--or at least cool?" "Oh, should I!" the man mimicked, "I thought first you was merely
drunk; I can see quite clearly now that you're mad." "And yet you have such defective sight." "What makes you say that?" the man said testily. "Why," Hamar responded, "because you can't see what lies beneath your
very nose. Shall I tell you what it is?" "Yes, tell away," the man replied, "tell me my old mother's got twins,
and that Boss Croker is coming to lodge with us. I'd know you for a
liar anywhere by those teeth of yours." "Look here," said Hamar drawing himself up angrily, "I have had enough
of your abuse. If I have any more I'll tell your employers. It is
evident you take me for a bummer, but see,"--and plunging his hand in
his pocket he pulled it out full of gold. "Kindly understand I'm
somebody," he went on, "and that I'm staying at one of the biggest
hotels in the town." "I'm damned if I know what to make of you," the man muttered, "unless
you're a hoptical delusion!" "Underneath where I was standing--just here,"--and Hamar indicated the
spot--"is water. Any amount of it, you have only to sink a shaft
fifteen feet and you would come to it." "Water!" the man laughed, "yes, there is any amount of it--on your
brain, that's the only water near here." "Then you don't believe me?" Hamar demanded. "Not likely!" the man responded, "I only believe what I see! And when
I see a face like yours holding out a potful of dollars, I know as how
you've stolen them. Git!" --and Hamar flew. But Hamar was not so easily nonplussed; not at least when he saw a
chance of making money. Entering the garden, and keeping well out of
sight of the gardener, he arrived at the front door by a side path, and
with much formality requested to see the owner of the establishment. The latter happening to be crossing the hall at the time, heard Hamar
and asked what he wanted. Hamar at once informed him he was a dowser, and that, chancing to pass
by the garden on his way to his hotel, he had divined the presence of
water. "I only wish there were," the gentleman exclaimed, "but I fear you are
mistaken. I have attempted several times to sink a well but never with
the slightest degree of success. I have had all the ground carefully
prospected by Figgins of Sacramento Street--he has a very big
reputation--and he assures me there isn't a drop of water anywhere
near here within two hundred feet of the surface." "I know better," Hamar said. "Will you get your gardener--who by the
way was very rude to me just now when I spoke to him--to dig where I
tell him. I have absolute confidence in my power of divination." The owner of the property, whom I will call Mr. B. assented, and
several gardeners, including the one who had so insulted Hamar, were
soon digging vigorously. At the depth of fifteen feet, water was
found, and, indeed, so fast did it begin to come in that within a few
minutes it had risen a foot. The onlookers were jubilant. "I shall send an account of it to the local papers," Mr. B. remarked. "Your fame will be spread everywhere. You have increased the value of
my property a thousandfold, I cannot tell you how grateful I am"--and
he, then and there, invited Hamar to luncheon. After luncheon Mr. B. made him a present of a cheque--rather in excess
of the sum which Hamar had all along intended to have, and could not
have refrained from demanding much longer. In the afternoon all the San Francisco specials were full of the
incident, and Hamar, seeing his name placarded for the first time, was
so overcome that he spent the rest of the evening in the hotel
deliberating how he could best turn his sudden notoriety to account. At ten o'clock Kelson came in, looking somewhat fatigued, but,
nevertheless, pleased. He, too, had had adventures, and he detailed
them with so much elaboration that the other two had frequently to
tell him to "dry up." "I began the morning," he commenced, "by accosting a very fashionably
dressed lady coming out of Bushwell's Store in Commercial Street. Divination at once told me she was the popular widow of J.K. Bater,
the Biscuit King of Nob Hill, and that she was carrying in her big
seal-skin muff a gold hatpin mounted with an emerald butterfly, a
silver-backed hair brush, a blue enamelled scent bottle, and a
porcelain jar, all of which she had slyly 'nicked,' when no one was
looking.