“Three hundred eighty-seven thirteen, according to the last annual report,” replied Skinner glibly. His eyes glistened.
“And the Blue Star stock?”
“Four hundred thirty-two twenty-seven.”
“Hump! Harump-h-h! It will be worth more when the Panama Canal is opened. We'll have a crack at the Atlantic Seaboard market with our Pacific Coast lumber, and the water freight will knock the rail rate silly. Besides, I'm going to buy up a couple of large freighters, or build them, and that stock of yours will pay dividends then. I'll soak you four hundred per share for the Blue Star stock. Is that satisfactory?”
Nobody knew better than Mr. Skinner the fact that the Blue Star stock at the book valuation was appraised very conservatively. He nodded.
“Lumber market's up and down, down and up, and we never know where we stand. Give you that at two-fifty a share. Want it?”
“I should say I do!” Skinner gasped.
“Then you owe me sixty-five thousand dollars. I'll take your promissory note for it at five per cent., and you can pay the note out of your salary and the dividends. You'll be in the clear in ten years at the very latest; the stock I'm selling you now will be worth a hundred thousand—with your management. Here's the contract, which embodies a promissory note. Sign it, endorse the stock to me to secure the payment of the note, and then clear out of here. Not a peep out of you, sir, not a peep. If you say 'Thank you' I'll change my mind about selling.”
Mr. Skinner's hand trembled a little as he wrote his name across the backs of the stock certificates and appended the same clear, concise signature to the note. Silently he wrung Cappy's hand.
“Get out,” rasped Cappy. Mr. Skinner got out.