“It’s a lot of money, Mr. Westland,” he agreed, “but it isn’t enough.”
A look of relief came into Westland’s eyes. Perhaps his task wasn’t hopeless after all.
“If that’s the case, perhaps we can raise the figures a little,” he said eagerly, “although we thought we were making a very liberal offer. But as I said before, we’re no pikers, and we wouldn’t let a few thousands stand between us. State your terms.”
“You don’t understand,” replied Joe. “What I meant was that there isn’t money enough in your whole crowd to make me go back on my word and jump my contract.”
“Hot off the bat!” exclaimed Jim. “Gee, I wish McRae and Robbie and the rest of the Giant bunch could have heard this pow-wow.”
Westland evidently had all he could do to 29 contain himself. He had felt so serenely confident in the power of his money that he had scarcely allowed himself to think of failure. Yet here was his money flouted as though it were counterfeit, and he himself, instead of being greeted with open arms, was being treated with scorn and contempt.
“Upon my word, Mr. Matson,” he said, with an evident effort to keep cool, “you have a queer way of meeting a legitimate business proposition.”
“That’s just the trouble,” retorted Joe. “It isn’t legitimate and you know it. In the first place you’re offering me a good deal more than I’m worth.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” expostulated Jim loyally. “There’s at least one man in the league getting that much, and he never saw the day when he was a better man than you are.”
“More than I’m worth,” repeated Joe. “Still, if that were all, and you were simply trying to buy my baseball ability, it would be your own affair if you were bidding too high. But you don’t want to give me all this money because I’m a good pitcher. It’s because you want to make me a good liar. You think that every man has his price and it’s only a matter of bidding to find out mine.”