“There’s the Utopian,” observed the other. “Only a buzzard would get near it.”
“Do they call the promoter a thief?”
“They do.”
“And is he crazy?”
“He is. It’s either jail or a lunatic asylum for him.”
Bob handed what was left of the commodore’s check to the melancholy man. “Buy Utopian,” he said.
“All right,” answered the melancholy man listlessly. He was beyond feeling any emotion.
“I believe in Utopian,” observed Bob. “I have here,” touching his forehead, “inside information that it is an excellent little railroad property.”
“Oh, it isn’t a railroad,” said the melancholy man. “It’s—”
“Don’t tell me what it is,” retorted Bob. “Repeat some of those things the world calls the promoter.”