"Really, Colonel Midas," he replied, "I had no idea that you ever did business on a corner-grocery basis like that. You ought to run a vacuum cleaner over your brow. I think there are cobwebs in your gray matter. Why, my dear sir, I can capitalize this gift of mine at a billion, and pay ten per cent. on every dollar of it every year, with a little melon to be cut up annually by the stock-holders of one hundred and fifty per cent. per annum. Why, then, should I sell out at twenty millions?"
"Oh, I suppose you can have the earth if you want it," retorted Midas, ruefully. "But all the same—"
"No, I don't want the earth," said Wilbraham. "If I had wanted it I should have had it long ago. I'd only have to pay taxes on it, and it would be a nuisance looking after the property."
"On what basis will you sell out?" demanded Midas.
"Well, we might incorporate my gift," said Wilbraham. "What would you say to a United States Wish Syndicate, formed to produce and sell wishes to the public by the can—POTTED WISHES: ONE HUNDRED NON-CUMULATIVE WISHES FOR A DOLLAR. Eh?"
Midas paced the floor in his enthusiasm.
"Magnificent!" he cried. "We'll underwrite the whole thing in my office—bonds, stock, both common and preferred—for say—ahem!—how much did you say?"
"Oh, I guess I can pull along on a billion," said Wilbraham. "Cash."
Midas scratched his head. A glitter came into his eye.
"You wish to give up control of your gift?" he asked.