“Wonder what he wants with Paul?” mused Rob, as he watched the former Wall Street luminary link his arm familiarly in the boy’s and walk off with him, talking earnestly. They waited patiently, and presently Paul came hurrying toward them with a wondering face. His eyes were round.
“Say, fellows,” he exclaimed, “Mr. Hunt has offered me a thousand dollars for the exclusive rights to the motor-scooter—what do you think of it?”
“What can they think of it but that it is a splendid offer,” put in Mr. Hunt, coming up. “Why, I have made it without even seeing the machine.”
“But you overheard about the dispatch from Washington,” put in Rob quietly.
“Confound this boy. He’s too sharp,” thought Mr. Hunt, whose desire to obtain the rights to the machine had increased greatly since Paul had imprudently announced his news from the capital.
“I am willing to give this lad a royalty interest in the sales, supposing the machine is practicable,” he said, in as conciliatory a tone as he could adopt toward what were, in his lofty opinion, “a bunch of green kids.”
“What do you think, Rob?” asked Paul, his eyes glowing.
“You will excuse us a minute, Mr. Hunt?” said Rob, and then, drawing his excited young friend to one side, he began to talk to him earnestly. The gist of Rob’s advice was that Paul would be very silly to close any sort of a deal in a hurry. His father’s friend in Washington was evidently doing all that lay in his power to further his interests, and if such a shrewd citizen as Mr. Hunt was willing to make such an offer on snap judgment, the machine must, in reality, be worth much more.
“Well,” said Mr. Hunt, with a ghastly effort at a pleasant smile, “I trust that David has given good counsel to Jonathan?”
“Why, sir,” blurted out Paul. “I don’t believe I care to do anything in the matter to-day.”