“Gus,” he charged, “you're up to something. I can see it in your eyes. You look guilty.”
Mr. Redell hitched his chair close to Cappy and with his index finger tapped the old gentleman three times on the right knee-three impressive taps.
“Alden P. Ricks,” he began with equal impressiveness, “I have a scheme—”
Cappy chuckled and slapped his thin old thigh.
“I knew it! By the Holy Pink-Toed Prophet! Gus, if you ever come into my office and fail to unload a scheme on me I'll think you aren't enjoying your usual robust health. What are you going to start now? A skunk farm for cornering the market on Russian sable?”
“Cut out the hilarity. This is serious business, Cappy. I can show you where you and I can waltz into the Chicago Pit, make a killing on December wheat, and escape with a sizable wad before our identity is discovered.”
Cappy, caught off his guard, blinked at the enormity of the prospect; but, remembering his dignity as a business man, he shook his head sadly and replied:
“Wheat! Wheat, eh? A lumber and shipping man monkeying with wheat? Not for little old Alden P. Ricks! No, sir! When I go speculating I stick to my specialties—lumber and ships. Did you ever hear of a gambler, winning a fortune at faro, who didn't drop his winnings on the ponies?”
“But this is a beautiful layout.”
“I don't know anything about wheat and I'm too old to learn. Besides, I don't trust you, Gus. You're an infernal scoundrel; and experience has taught me that any time I take your tip and go in on a deal I have to step lively to keep from being walked on.”