“But how much?” demanded Blount, brushing aside all the details, “how much will you pay me a share?”
“I’ll pay you,” stated Wiley, “what I paid Death Valley Charley, and that’s five cents a share.”
“Five cents!” shrilled Blount, rising up in protest, yet jumping at the price like a trout, “five cents–why, that’s practically nothing!”
“Just five cents more than nothing,” observed Wiley judicially and waited for Blount to rave.
“But your father,” suggested Blount with a knowing leer, “is in the market at ten.”
“No, not in the market. He offered that to the 113Widow, but now the deal is off, because all of her stock has changed hands.”
“Well, the stock is the same,” suggested Blount insinuatingly. “Give me seven and a half and split the profits.”
“Now don’t be a crook,” rapped out Wiley angrily. “Just because you would rob your own father doesn’t by any means prove that I will.”
“Well, you certainly implied,” protested Blount with injured innocence, “that this stock was to be sold to your father. And if it is worth that to him, why is it worth less to you? You must be working together.”
“No, we’re not,” declared Wiley. “I’m in on this alone, and have been, from the start. And just to set your mind at rest–he didn’t make that offer because he wanted the stock, but to kind of help out the Widow.”