Billy reflected. It was easy enough to let a lie slip off his tongue, but Turner had access to the books.
“Twenty-five dollars a week,” he said.
“You owe a lot to Wallingford,” observed Mr. Turner. “It’s the best pay you ever drew.”
“Yes, it is pretty good,” admitted Billy; “but I don’t owe Wallingford any more than I owe myself.”
In the dark Mr. Turner slowly placed his palms together.
“You’re a bright boy,” said Mr. Turner. “Billy, I don’t like to see a stranger come in here and gobble up the community’s money. It ought to stay in the hands of home folks. I’d like to get control of that business. If you’ll sell me your share of stock I might be able to handle it, and if I can I’ll advance your wages to thirty-five dollars a week.”
“You’re a far pleasanter man than Wallingford,” said Billy amiably. “You’re a smarter man, a better man, a handsomer man! When do we start on that thirty-five?”
“Very quickly, Billy, if you feel that way about it.” And the friction of Mr. Turner’s palms was perfectly audible. “Then I can have your share of stock?”
“You most certainly can, and I’ll guarantee to buy up three other shares in the office if you want them.”