“How much, now?”
“About a thousand dollars.”
“Let me manage it for you, and I will make it two thousand inside of a month.”
Mrs. Estabrook had a large share of acquisitiveness, but she had also a large measure of caution, which she had inherited from her Scotch ancestry.
“No, Willis,” she said, shaking her head, “I can't take any risk. This money it has taken me years to save. It is the sole dependence I have for my old age, and I can't run the risk of losing it.”
“But two thousand dollars will be better than one, mother. Just let me tell you what happened to a customer of ours: He had above five hundred dollars in the savings bank, drawing four per cent interest—only twenty dollars a year. He had a friend in the Stock Exchange who took charge of it, bought stocks judiciously on a margin, then reinvested, and now, after three months, how much do you think it amounts to?”
“How much?” asked the housekeeper, with interest.
“Six thousand five hundred dollars—just thirteen times as much!” answered Willis, glibly.
This story, by the way, was all a fabrication, intended to influence his stepmother. Mrs. Estabrook never doubted Ford's statement, but her instinctive caution saved her from falling into the trap.
“It looks tempting, Willis,” she said, “but I don't dare to take the risk.” Ford was deeply disappointed, but did not betray it.