Mr. Squinch, over his tightly pressed finger-tips, did a little rapid figuring. A membership of ten thousand would make a total income for the office, counting expense fund and loan committee fund, of three thousand five hundred per week, steadily, week in and week out, with endless possibilities of increase.
“And what did you say you would take for a half interest?” he asked.
“I didn’t say,” returned Wallingford, chuckling, “because I wouldn’t sell a half interest under any consideration. I don’t mind confessing to you, though, that I do need some money at once, so much so that I would part with four hundred and ninety-nine shares, right now, and for spot cash, for a lump sum of twenty-five thousand dollars.”
“Bound to keep control himself,” Mr. Squinch reported to his confrères, after having reluctantly confessed to himself that he could not take care of the proposition alone. “I don’t blame him so much, either, for he’s got a vast money-maker.”
“Money without end,” complained Andy Grout, his mouth stretching sourly down to the shape of a narrow croquet wicket; “and the longer we stay out of this thing the more money we’re losing. It’s better than any building-loan.”
There was a curious hesitation in Andy Grout’s voice as he spoke of the building-loan, for he had been heartbroken that they had been compelled to give up this lucrative business, and he was not over it yet.
Doc Turner rubbed his perpetually lifeless hands together quite slowly.
“I don’t know whether we’re losing money or not,” he interjected. “There is no question but that Wallingford will make it, but I suppose you know why he won’t sell a half interest.”
“So he won’t lose control,” said Squinch, impatient that of so obvious a fact any explanation should be required.
“But why does he want to keep control?” persisted Doc Turner. “Why, so he can vote himself a big salary as manager. No matter how much he made we’d get practically no dividends.”