“How much?”
“Fourteen cents, at ships’ tackles, Shanghai.”
Dan figured rapidly while Ridley held the wire. The price quoted would net his firm a profit of about eight thousand dollars. “Sold!” he cried triumphantly.
By noon the deal had been definitely closed with Ridley’s client, the space contracted for on the Malayan transferred to the new owner of the rice, and the check in payment deposited in bank. Dan’s mental thermometer commenced to rise, so he decided to accord himself the delight of breaking the news to old Casson.
The senior partner’s face darkened with fury. “You’ve cost us a potential profit of a quarter of a million dollars, Pritchard. I suppose you realize that this confounded interference of yours means the end of our business association.”
“I hope so. Thank you, I wouldn’t care for another helping of the mustard. Do you propose buying me out or selling out to me?”
“I would prefer to buy you out—today—and carry those rice deals myself.”
“Unfortunately, the sale of my interest here will not invalidate my signature on some of this firm’s paper, Mr. Casson.”
“That might be arranged somehow. What do you want for your interest?”
Dan named a figure and old Casson nodded approval.