“No,” she confessed, “I guess I don’t; only I thought it was just twenty-five per cent.”
“It is twenty-five per cent.,” he insisted, and then he gave it up. “You’d better quit thinking,” he advised. “It’ll put wrinkles in your brow, and I’m the one that has the wrinkles scheduled. I’ve just contracted for one hundred thousand dollars’ worth of advertising, and I’ve got to go out to sell enough stock to bring in the cash. Also, I’ve rented a factory, and to-morrow I’m going to let out contracts for bottling machinery, vats and fixtures. I’ve already ordered the office furniture. You ought to see it. It’s swell. I’m having some lithographed stationery made, too, embossed in four colors, with a picture of Doctor Quagg in the corner.”
“How much stock has the doctor?” she asked.
“Ten thousand.”
“Is that all he’s going to have?” she wanted to know.
“Why, certainly, that’s all he’s going to have. I made the bargain with him and he’s satisfied.”
“Ten thousand dollars’ worth out of a half-million-dollar corporation? Why, Jim, for his medicine, upon which the whole business is built, he only gets—how much is that of all of it?”
“One fiftieth, or two per cent.,” he told her.
“Two per cent.!” she gasped. “Is that straight business, Jim?”