“I don’t blame you, Mr. Burnit,” said he; “but to show you that I am more willing to trust you than you are to trust me, if you care to go into this thing I’ll agree to sell you from one to ten shares of my individual stock—at its present market value, of course.”
“That’s very good of you,” agreed Bobby, suddenly ashamed of his ungenerous stand in the face of this sportsmanlike attitude. “But really I’ve had cause for timidity.”
“Caution is not cowardice,” said Mr. Sharpe in a tone which conveyed a world of friendly approbation. “This matter must be taken up very soon, however, and I can not allow you more than a week to investigate. I’d be pleased to receive your legal and business advisers at any time you may nominate, and to give them any advantage you may wish.”
“I’ll investigate it at least, and I thank you for giving me the opportunity,” said Bobby, really very contrite that he had been doing Sharpe such a mental injustice all these years. “By the way,” he suddenly added, “has Silas Trimmer anything whatever to do with this proposition?”
Mr. Sharpe smiled.
“Mr. Trimmer does not own one share of stock in the Brightlight Electric Company, nor will he own it,” he answered.
“In that case,” said Bobby, “I am satisfied to consider your offer without fear of heart-disease.”
The departing caller met an incoming one in the outer office, and Agnes, sweeping into Bobby’s room, breathlessly gasped:
“That was Frank Sharpe!”
“The same,” admitted Bobby, smiling down at her and taking both her hands.