"By golly! I can't understand that scheme. How can you make any money giving out that Silver Coin tip for nothing?"
"Watch and see!" I said.
Around to the Morning Telegraph office, then on Forty-second Street, I went.
"Insert this ad and give me $7 worth of space," I said, as I shelled out my last cent.
When the advertisement appeared the next morning, its aspect was disappointing. The space occupied was only fifty-six agate lines, or four inches, single-column measure. It looked puny. Would people notice it?
That afternoon Campbell and I took possession of the new office of Maxim & Gay. Luckily, a former tenant had left a desk and a chair behind, in lieu of a settlement for rent. In walked a tall Texan.
"Hey there!" he cried. "Here's $5. It's yours. Keep it. Answer my question, and no matter what way you answer it, it don't make any difference. The $5 is yours."
I looked up in amazement.
"Give me the source of your information on Silver Coin," he said. "I bet big money. If your dope is on the level, I'll bet a 'gob.' If it ain't, your confession will be cheap at $5, which will be all the money I'll lose."
I showed him the letter from Frank Mead.