The lad calmly drew a big roll of bills from his pocket, placing it on the counter before the storekeeper. To the pile he added his watch, a jackknife, a bunch of keys and a silver matchbox.
"Help yourself," he begged calmly.
"Wha—what?" gasped the storekeeper.
"I said help yourself. I want that wall. I leave it to you to say what is a reasonable price for it—a price fair to you and to me. You admit that money talks. This money is addressing its remarks to you direct, at this very moment."
The proprietor hesitated, glanced at the money and other articles that Phil had arrayed so temptingly before him, and turned reflectively facing the rear of the store.
"I will scribble off a little contract," said Phil softly.
"How much shall we make the consideration?"
"What'll you give?"
"I've got him!" was Phil Forrest's triumphant thought, but he allowed none of his triumphant feeling to appear in his face.
"Well, were I making the offer I should say the wall was worth about forty dollars, no other bills to appear on it until after my show has left town. But I told you to help yourself. I'll stick to my word."
"Count me out forty dollars and take it. I like your style.
Your way of doing business makes a hit with me."