“You’re sure there can’t be any hitch in it.”
“Not if I say it’s all right,” and the words were Tim’s only reproof. His tone was perfectly level, and there was no glint in his eyes. Offended dignity had nothing to do with business. “Give me one week’s notice, and the Vedder Court property will be condemned for the city terminal of the Municipal Transportation Company. Appraisement, thirty-one million.”
“I only wanted to be reassured,” apologised Allison. “I took your word that you could swing it when I made my own gamble, but now I have to drag other people into it.”
“That’s right,” agreed Tim. “I never get offended over straight business.” In other times Tim Corman would have said “get sore,” but, as he neared the end of his years of useful activity, he was making quite a specialty of refinement, and stocking a picture gallery, and becoming a connoisseur collector of rare old jewels. He dressed three times a day.
“How about the Crescent Island subway?”
“Ripe any time,” and Tim Corman flecked the ashes from his cigar with a heavily gemmed hand. “The boosters have been working on it right along, but never too strong.”
“There’s no need for any particular manipulation in that,” decided Allison, who knew the traction situation to the last nickel. “The city needs that outlet, and it needs the new territory which will be opened up. I think we’d better push the subway right on across to the mainland. The extension would have to be made in ten years anyhow.”
“It’s better right now,” immediately assented Corman. In ten years he might be dead.
“I think, too, that we’d better provide for a heavy future expansion,” went on Allison, glancing expectantly into Tim’s old eyes. “We’d probably better provide for a double-deck, eight track tube.”
Tim Corman drew a wheezy breath, and then he grinned the senile shadow of his old-time grin; but it still had the same spirit.