“Only a separate trust fund John set up for me before he died––fifty thousand dollars––I just get the interest––sixty dollars a week.”
Mr. Mix sat down hard, and his breathing was laboured. “Great––Jumping––Jehosophat!” He wet his lips, repeatedly. “Mirabelle––listen––if they modify that ordinance––so Sunday shows are legal again––those other fellows’ll want to buy back––their contracts––from Henry. There’s only a few weeks––but if Henry only raised a thousand dollars––he’d be so close to his ten thousand––” He reached for a glass of water and drank it, gulping. “Henry’ll see that––he’s got his eyes open 283 every minute.... We’ve got to cut inside of him. Prevent those fellows from buying their Sunday leases back. Get hold of the man that’s the boss of the Exhibitors’ Association. Tell him we’ll buy a second option to lease the whole string of theatres for six weeks, subject to our getting a release from Henry. As if the League wanted ’em or something. Offer a big enough rent so they’ll have to accept––so they’d get more out of us than if they opened up. Then they can’t buy back from Henry––and he’s over a thousand short. I know he is. And if you don’t do it––” His gesture was dramatic.
Mirabelle’s expression, as she wiped her eyes, was a pot-pourri of sentiments. “Humph! Can’t say I like the idea much, kind of too tricky.”
Mr. Mix played his last card. “Don’t the ends justify the means? You and I’d be philanthropists, and Henry––” He watched her quiver. “And with a fund such as we’d have, we’d begin all over again, and next time we’d win, wouldn’t we?”
“Theodore. I’ve got fifty one hundred in the bank. It has to last ’till August. If you took five thousand more––”
He snatched at the straw. “You bet I’ll take it. It’s for insurance. And you telephone to Masonic Hall and see what’s left of the three grand you wired ’em from––”
“The what?”
“The money you sent from Chicago. Get what’s left. Soon as I find out, I’ll hustle down town and get busy.”
Mirabelle wavered. “The Council’s going to––”