“Yes,” says Mr. Hamilton, “you’ll raise it a whole swarm of mites. There’s one price on that stock and one price only. Twelve hundred and twenty-five dollars is the price, and you can take it or leave it. I haven’t any time to dicker. Just think that over. It’s so cheap I’m ashamed to handle the deal. Now think it over. It’s yes or no to that price. No use talking anything else.”
“Twelve hundred and twenty-five dollars!” says Skip. He sat there and twiddled his fingers and waggled his nose and worked his Adam’s apple up and down so I nearly busted right out laughing. He didn’t say a word for a quarter of an hour, and Mr. Hamilton pretended he wasn’t there at all. Hamilton worked away at his desk and didn’t so much as look at Skip once. It was nearly four o’clock when Skip caved in.
“Sure that’s the best price?” says he.
“Certain.”
“Then,” says Skip, hesitating a bit like it hurt him to say the words—“then I’ll—I’ll take it. What terms?”
“Three hundred and twenty-five dollars now, and the balance Thursday,” says Hamilton. “I’ll deliver a legal option to you now and a bill of sale when you pay down the balance.”
Skip pulled a wallet out of his pocket and counted out the money—three hundred and twenty-five dollars. My! but it looked like a lot. He put it on the desk. Then Mr. Hamilton pushed over our option. The option was in my name, James Smalley, because we knew Skip never would recognize it. Father’s name is Mortimer Smalley, so Skip wouldn’t think of any connection. He didn’t suspect a thing. That was Mark Tidd’s idea, too.
Mr. Hamilton had made me sign the option over, so it was all ready to deliver to Skip. He took it and Mr. Hamilton took the money.
“You’ve got a good deal,” says Mr. Hamilton.
“Not so good as I calc’lated on gittin’,” says Skip, sour as vinegar. “But I guess I won’t lose no money on it.”