"How much would?"
"Well, fifty thousand would do it."
"Say, pop—"
"Yes."
Another long interval.
"I wish you'd buy fifty thousand for me in place of twenty-five."
"Humph," grunted Mr. Westlake, and after one sharp glance at her he looked down at his big fat thumbs and twirled them for a long, long time. "Well," said he, "Sam Turner is a fine young man. I've known him in a business way for five or six years, and I never saw a flaw in him of any sort. All right. You give Billy your sugar stock and I'll buy you this fifty thousand."
Miss Westlake reached over and kissed her father impulsively.
"Thanks, pop," she said. "Now there's another thing I want you to do."
"What, more?" he demanded.