“Bibbs,” he said, “I don't like to butt in very often this way, and when I do I usually wish I hadn't—but for Heaven's sake what have you been buying that ole busted inter-traction stock for?”
Bibbs leaned back from his desk. “For eleven hundred and fifty-five dollars. That's all it cost.”
“Well, it ain't worth eleven hundred and fifty-five cents. You ought to know that. I don't get your idea. That stuff's deader'n Adam's cat!”
“It might be worth something—some day.”
“How?”
“It mightn't be so dead—not if we went into it,” said Bibbs, coolly.
“Oh!” Sheridan considered this musingly; then he said, “Who'd you buy it from?”
“A broker—Fansmith.”
“Well, he must 'a' got it from one o' the crowd o' poor ninnies that was soaked with it. Don't you know who owned it?”
“Yes, I do.”