“I think that ought to be about the right figure,” agreed Bob. “Does that suit this board of directors? Eighty hard, round iron men?”
The others grinned assent, and they returned to the room where the older men were still seated about the radio set.
“Well, what’s the verdict?” inquired Mr. Robins, glancing keenly from one to the other.
“We’ve decided to sell,” replied Bob. “The price will be eighty dollars.”
Without a word Mr. Robins produced a roll of greenbacks, and counted off the specified amount in crisp bills.
“You’ll want a receipt, won’t you, Robins?” inquired Mr. Layton.
“Not necessary,” replied the other. “I’ve got a hunch that your son and his friends are on the level and won’t try to cheat an old fellow like me. I’ll have to be going now, but I’ll be around about the same time tomorrow morning to get the stock quotations. Coming, Blackford?”
[CHAPTER XI—A MOUNTAIN RADIO STATION]
Left to themselves, the boys looked at one another.
“That’s what I call quick work,” remarked Joe. “I hate to let the old set go, but they say you should never mix sentiment with business.”