Ryanne had met this sort of man before; the fellow who wanted to know what stuff he was made of, and was ready to risk his hide to find out. His experience had taught him to expect nothing of the man who knew just what he was going to do in a crisis.
"Did you ever know, Mr. Jones," said Ryanne, his eyes humorous, "that there is an organization in this world of ours, a company that offers a try-out to men of your kidney?"
"What's that? What do you mean?"
"What I say. There is an established concern which will, upon application for a liberal purchase of stock, arrange any kind of adventure you wish."
"What?" George drew in his legs and sat up. "What sort of a jolly is this?"
"You put your finger upon the one great obstacle. No one will believe that such a concern exists. Yet it is a fact. And why not?"
"Because it wouldn't be real; it would be going to the moon à la Coney Island."
"Wrong, absolutely wrong. If I told you that I am a stock-holder in this company, and that the adventure of the Yhiordes rug was arranged for my special benefit, what would you say?"
"Say?" George turned a serious countenance toward the adventurer. "Why, the whole thing is absurd on the face of it. As a joke, it might go; but as a genuine affair, utterly impossible."