“How do you do, Mr. Sharpe?” quoth the millionaire senior partner of the firm of Greenbaum, Lazarus & Co. “I hope you are well?” He bent his head to one side, his eyes full of a caressing scrutiny, as though to ascertain the exact condition of Sharpe’s health. “Yes, you must be. I haven’t seen you look so fine in a long time.”
“You didn’t come up here just to tell me this, Greenbaum, did you? How’s your Turpentine? Oh!”—with a long whistle—“I see. You want me to go into it, hey?” And he laughed—a sort of half-chuckle, half-snarl.
Greenbaum looked at him admiringly; then, with a tentative smile, he said: “I am discovered!”
Nearly every American may be met as an equal on the field of Humor. To jest in business matters of the greatest importance bespoke the national trait. Moreover, if Sharpe declined, Greenbaum could treat the entire affair—the proposal and the rejection—as parts of a joke.
“Well?” said Sharpe, unhumorously.
“What’s the matter with a pool?”
“How big?” coldly.
“Up to the limit.” Again the Trust-maker smiled, uncertainly.
“You haven’t all the capital stock, I hope.”
“Well, call it 100,000 shares,” said Greenbaum, more uncertainly and less jovially.