“‘Why does it decline?’ His voice went up like a singing school.
“‘The steel bunch are clubbing it,’ I says.
“He understood that, and began to finger around his little wax mustache.
“‘Quite so,’ he cheeped, ‘quite so.’ Then he squared toward me.
“‘Ah—er, Mr. Johnson,’ he says, ‘I fauncy you came with some plan about it.’
“‘Plan nothin’,’ I says; ‘the stuff’s got to be covered—they’ll git it beat under her figger in another day’s poundin’.’
“‘Ah—er—quite so,’ he was cool as a julep; ‘you are intending, I fauncy, to cover the margin?’
“I leaned over the table and blew a mouthful of smoke on him.
“‘Sure!’ I roared in his face, ‘if I can get fifty thousand dollars, quick.’
“He ducked out of the smoke.