"I was thinking of the old Buttercup League," said Mr Hammet. "You took the remains over, lock, stock, and barrel, I believe?"
"Yes, all that would come. Half belonged to your party really, and half of the remainder were children. What an organisation that was in its time! A million and a half!" The smart young newspaper man noted Mr Salt's open admiration for these figures. It convinced him that the newer League was not yet within measurable distance of half that total.
"And in the end it did—what?" he remarked.
Salt was bound to apologise. "What is there to do, after all?" he admitted. "What can you do but keep your people together, show them where their interest lies, and wait?"
"And rake in the shekels?" suggested Mr Hammet airily.
"Oh, that!" agreed Salt a little uneasily. "Of course one has to look after the finances."
"Ra-ther," agreed Mr Hammet. "Wish I had the job. Do you smoke here as a general thing?"
"Oh yes," replied Salt, who never did. "Try one of these."
"Fairish cigars. Better than you'd find in the old man's private box up at our show," was the verdict. "But then we haven't a revenue of half a million."
"Of course I rely on you not to say anything about our numbers," said the secretary anxiously.