“I’ll tell her,” said Henry, “but I won’t be proud until I’ve nailed that skin over the barn-door.”
On his way out, he dropped in for a moment to see Bob Standish. Bob was at his old tricks again; and while his competitors in realty, and insurance, and mortgage loans, made the same mistake that once his classmates and instructors and the opposing ends and tackles had made, and argued that his fair skin and his innocent blue eyes, his indolent manner and his perfection of dress all evidenced his lack of wit and stamina, he had calmly proceeded to chase several of those competitors out of business, and to purchase their good-will on his own terms. It was popularly said, in his own circle, that Standish would clear a hundred thousand dollars his first year.
He winked lazily at Henry, and indicated a chair. “Set!” said Standish. “Glad you came 187 in. Two things to ask you. Want to sell? Want to rent?”
“If you were in my shoes, would you sell, Bob?”
“I can get you twenty-eight thousand.”
“That’s low.”
“Sure, but everybody knows you’ve got a clientele that nobody else could get. Are you talking?”
“I––guess not just yet.”
“Want to rent? I just had a nibble for small space; you could get fifty a month for that attic you’re using for a nursery.”