Mr. Mix started, and his memory began to unfold. It was on the tip of his tongue to blurt out: “And lose your shot at the estate?” but he restrained himself. He wasn’t supposed to know the circumstances, and as a matter of fact, as he realized with a thrill of relish, he was probably the only outsider who did know the 76 circumstances. “Why,” said Mr. Mix. “Do you own the Orpheum? Well, I should say offhand it’s worth a good deal. Twenty thousand. The land, you know: the building’s no good.”
Henry nodded impatiently. “Yes, but who’d buy it?”
“Well, now, about that––of course, I’m not a real estate man––but you could certainly trade it.”
“What for?”
Mr. Mix caught the note of sincerity in Henry’s voice, and Mr. Mix thought rapidly. He appeared to deliberate, to waver, to burn his bridges. “Well––say for a third interest in Theodore Mix and Company.”
Henry stared. “Are you serious?”
Mr. Mix almost fell over backwards. “Why, yes. It’s sudden, but ... why, yes. I could use more capital, and I want a crack salesman. I’ll trade––if you’re quick on the trigger. I’ve got two or three people interested so far, but when it’s you––”
Henry took him by the arm. “Come on over to the Citizens Club, then, and we’ll talk about it.”