Robbie, who had come up just in time to hear Joe’s last words, gave him a resounding thump on the back.
“That’s the way to talk, Joe, old boy!” he cried. “I’ve been telling Mac all along that no matter who else weakens he could bet his last dollar on you.”
“Not that I needed any bracing up,” declared McRae. “I know a man when I see one, and I count on you to the limit. I didn’t send that telegram because I had any doubt, but I knew that they’d make a break for you first of all and I didn’t want you to be taken by surprise. By the way, have any of them turned up yet?”
“A chap named Westland came to see me the very day I got your telegram,” replied Joe.
“And he came well heeled, too,” put in Jim. “Money was fairly dripping from him. He just ached to give it away. It was only up to Joe to become a bloated plutocrat on the spot.” 68
“Offered good money, did he?” asked McRae, with quickened interest.
“Twenty thousand dollars right off the bat,” replied Jim. “Fifteen thousand dollars a year for a three-year contract. And as if that weren’t enough, he offered to put the money in the bank in advance and let Joe draw against it as he went along.”
McRae and Robbie exchanged glances. Here was proof that the new league meant business right from the start. It was a competitor to be dreaded and it was up to them to get their fighting clothes on at once.
“That’s a whale of an offer,” ejaculated Robbie.
“They’ve thrown their hat into the ring,” remarked McRae. “From now on it’s a fight for blood.”