Part 17 (2/2)
”Utterly impossible,” said Mr. Squinch.
The slyly rubbing palms of Mr. Turner, the down-shot lines of Andy Grout's face, the compressed lips of Tom Fester, all affirmed Mr.
Squinch's decided negative.
”Give me fifteen,” pleaded Wallingford. ”Twelve--ten.”
They would not. To each of these proposals they shook emphatic heads.
”Very well,” said Wallingford, and quietly wrote an address on the envelope containing his certificates. He tossed the envelope on the postal scales, sealed it, took stamps from his drawer and pasted them on. ”Then, gentlemen, good day.”
”Wait a minute,” hastily protested Mr. Squinch. ”Gentlemen, suppose we confer a minute.”
Heads bent together, they conferred.
”We'll give you eight thousand dollars,” said Squinch as a result of the conference. ”We'll go right down and draw it out of the bank in cash and give it to you.”
There was not a trace of hesitation in Wallingford.
”I've made my lowest offer,” he said. ”Ten thousand or I'll drop these in the mail box.”
They were quite certain that Wallingford meant business, as indeed he did. He had addressed the envelope to Blackie Daw and he was quite sure that he could make the shares worth at least ten thousand.
Once more they conferred.
”All right,” agreed Mr. Squinch reluctantly. ”We'll do it--out of charity.”
”I don't care what it's out of, so long as I get the money,” said Wallingford.
In New York, where Wallingford met Blackie Daw by appointment, the latter was eager to know the details.
”The letter did the business, I suppose, eh, Wallingford?”
”Fine and dandy,” a.s.sented Wallingford. ”A great piece of work, and timed to the hour. I saw the envelope in that batch of mail before I made my play.”
”Manslaughter!” shrieked Blackie by and by. ”On the level, J. Rufus, did you ever kill anything bigger than a mosquito?”
”I don't know. I think I made quite a sizable killing down in Doc Turner's little old town,” he said complacently.
”I don't think so,” disputed Blackie thoughtfully. ”I may be a cheese-head, but I don't see why you sold your stock, anyhow. Seems to me you had a good graft there. Why didn't you hold on to it? It was a money-maker.”
”No,” denied Wallingford with decision. ”It's an illegal business, Blackie, and I won't have anything to do with an illegal business. The first thing you know that lottery will be in trouble with the federal government, and I'm on record as never having conducted any part of it after it became a lottery. Another thing, in less than a year that bunch of crooks will be figuring on how to land the capital prize for themselves under cover. No, Blackie, a quick turn and legal safety for mine, every time. It pays better. Why, I cleaned up thirty thousand dollars net profit on this in three months! Isn't that good pay?”
”It makes a crook look like a fool,” admitted Blackie Daw.
CHAPTER XIII
BEAUTY PHILLIPS STEPS INTO THE SPOT-LIGHT FOR HER GRAND SPECIALTY
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