“No time to be squeamish! We’re partners. This is an advance on the profits.”
Miss Ferguson offered no further objection.
They found Gus Saunders awaiting them in his private office. A conservative broker, this, albeit a young man; by inheritance the junior head of a big firm; clean-cut in every line, and a good sportsman. Bowen had frequently met him at Tonopah.
“Miss Ferguson, allow me to introduce Mr. Saunders. Miss Ferguson is my partner at present, Gus, in a deal we’ve got on hand; looks like a big one, and we need your help.”
“That’s my business,” and the broker smiled.
“There’s a curb stock by the name of—”
“Hold on!” Saunders flung up his hands. “Don’t talk curb stock to me. Don’t touch the stuff, and you ought to know it!”
“Shut up till I get through!” snapped Bowen, and grinned. “You’re refusing no good business that comes along; and I’m paying you any commission on this job that you care to name. I’ll trust your end of it, Gus—and there’s no one else I can trust.”
“Well,” conceded the other, “let’s hear about it.”
“Neither Miss Ferguson nor I are very wise to the brokerage game,” pursued Bowen, “but we’ve doped out a theory and a course of action, and if it’s O. K.’d by you, and if it is feasible, then you can shoot ahead. To-morrow there is going to be some whopping big activity in Apex Crown, both here and at Los Angeles.