"Now what, Puss?" asked Jack the next afternoon, as he and his feline friend held a consultation in the apartment. "I've got three million to my credit in six banks. What's the next step—Algiers or Venezuela?"
"Why," said puss, "it seems to me that a man with three million in hand can afford to stay in New York over Christmas, anyhow."
"Yes, I know," said Jack. "But the old man—he's got to have some profit some time or other, hasn't he?"
Puss sighed deeply. "It is very evident, my dear Jack," said he, "that you are no financier. Settle a million on yourself and use the remainder to pay dividends to Mr. Dobbins. He'd probably think twenty-five per cent. on his investment was a pretty fair return, and if at the end of the first year you give him back seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars he'll be satisfied. Then if you hand him over a full million the second year—well—"
"Well what?" gasped Jack.
"He'll put five million more into the pool on your mere intimation that you are willing to help him out to that extent," said puss, "which will keep you going several years longer."
Jack breathed heavily at the prospect of such affluence, but he could not escape the uncomfortable feeling that there would be an inevitable day of reckoning ahead of him.
"And when that is gone?" he asked.
Puss gazed at him scornfully this time.
"My, but you are stupid!" he ejaculated. "I really want to help you, Jack, but I can't do everything, you know. You've got to handle some of this business yourself. But let me ask you one question: Did you ever hear of a millionaire putting the father of his grandchildren in jail because he had lost money in a blind speculation?"