ceased, meditatively expelled a cloud of pungent smoke, and folded his
arms.

"Of course," said I with a sneer, "you have proofs to back your pleasant
tale?"

"Sure. I made a map."

"I see," said I sarcastically. "You propose to have me pay you for that
map?"

"Sure."

"How much, my confiding friend?"

"Ten thousand plunks."

I began to laugh. He laughed, too: "You'll pay 'em if you take my map an'
go to the Coquina hills," he said.

I stopped laughing: "Do you mean that I am to go there and investigate
before I pay you for this information?"

"Sure. If the goods ain't up to sample the deal is off."

"Sample? What sample?" I demanded derisively.

He made a gesture with one soiled hand as though quieting a balky horse.

"I took a snapshot, friend. You wanta take a slant at it?"

"You took a photograph of one of these alleged cave-dwellers?"

"I took ten but when these here cave-ladies hove rocks at me the fillums
was put on the blink--all excep' this one which I dee-veloped an'
printed."

He drew from his inner coat pocket a photograph and handed it to me--the
most amazing photograph I ever gazed upon. Astounded, almost convinced
I sat looking at this irrefutable evidence in silence. The smoke of his
cigar drifting into my face aroused me from a sort of dazed inertia.

"Listen," I said, half strangled, "are you willing to wait for payment
until I personally have verified the existence of these--er--creatures?"

"You betcher! When you have went there an' have saw the goods, just let
me have mine if they're up to sample. Is that right?"

"It seems perfectly fair."

"It is fair. I wouldn't try to do a scientific guy--no, sir. Me without
no eddycation, only brains? Fat chance I'd have to put one over on a
Academy sport what's chuck-a-block with Latin an' Greek an' scientific
stuff an' all like that!"

I admitted to myself that he'd stand no chance.

"Is it a go?" he asked.

"Where is the map?" I inquired, trembling internally with excitement.

"Ha--ha!" he said. "Listen to my mirth! The map is inside here, old
sport!" and he tapped his retreating forehead with one nicotine-stained
finger.

"I see," said I, trying to speak carelessly; "you desire to pilot me."

"I don't desire to but I gotta go with you."

"An accurate map--"

"Can it, old sport! A accurate map is all right when it's pasted over the
front of your head for a face. But I wear the other kind of map _inside_
me conk. Get me?"