“Anything to oblige,” said Mr. Mix, with alacrity.
He spoke cordially to young Mr. Standish and in another moment, to the lawyer. With due solemnity he carried out the function which was assigned to him; he would have loved a peep at the body of the documents, but already 35 he was possessed of some very interesting information, and he kept his eyes religiously in the boat. Mr. Mix believed that in business and society, as well as in war, advance information is the basis of victory; and even while he was blotting his second signature, he was wondering how to capitalize what he had overheard. No inspiration came to him; so that methodically he stowed away the facts for reference.
“Stay right here, Mix. That’s all, ain’t it, Mr. Archer?”
“That’s all.” The lawyer was packing up his papers. “Good-morning, gentlemen.” He bowed himself away; Standish had long since vanished.
Mr. Starkweather mopped his face. “Hot, ain’t it?”
“You aren’t looking so very fit,” said Mr. Mix, critically. “Feel all right, do you?”
Mr. Starkweather pulled himself together. “Sure,” he said, but his voice lacked its usual heartiness. “I feel fine. Well, what can I do for you?”
Mr. Mix, delaying only to close the door (and to see that it latched) began with a foreword 36 which was followed by a preface and then by a prelude, but he had hardly reached the main introduction when Mr. Starkweather put up his hand. “To make a long story short, Mix––how much do you want?”
Mr. Mix looked pained. “Why, to tide me over the dull season, John, I need––let’s see––” He stole a glance at his friend, and doubled the ante. “About five thousand.”
Mr. Starkweather drummed on his desk. “Any security!”