“As I understand the ethics of your Eastern journalism, there wouldn't be anything to print,” said Judge Priest. “The price of them gasworks, accordin' to the latest quotations, was sixty thousand—but liable to advance without notice.”
“And what—what did you say you'd buy 'em back at?”
“Twenty-six thousand five hundred was the last price,” said the judge, “but subject to further shrinkage almost any minute.”
“I'll trade,” said Mr. Witherbee.
“Much obliged to you, son,” said Judge Priest gratefully, and he began fumbling in his breast pocket. “I've got the papers all made out.”
Mr. Witherbee regained his desk and reached for a checkbook just as the officeboy poked his head in again.
“Special officer's cornin' right away, sir,” he said.
“Tell him to go away and keep away,” snarled the flurried Mr. Witherbee; “and you keep that door shut—tight! Shall I make the check out to you?” he asked the judge.
“Well, now, I wouldn't care to bother with checks,” said the judge. “All the recent transactions involvin' this here gashouse property was by the medium of the common currency of the country, and I wouldn't care to undertake on my own responsibility to interfere with a system that has worked heretofore with such satisfaction. I'll take the difference in cash—if you don't mind.”
“But I can't raise that much cash now,” whined Witherbee. “I haven't that much in my safe. I doubt if I could get it at my bank on such short notice.”