“I did.”
“What’s that but speculating, then?”
“Look here, Mr. Steele, are you quite done with your abuse of me? Isn’t there something more that you could say? That I wear a woollen shirt, and haven’t any collar; that my trousers are turned up, and there’s mud on my shoes? Do you see any straw out of the farmyard on my hair? If you do, why don’t you mention it?”
John Steele laughed.
“Bravo, Tom,” he said; “that’s quite your Slocum Junction manner. I supposed you were up a tree—that you had bought a million bushels of wheat, spent thirty thousand dollars odd upon margins, and that now you couldn’t carry it any longer. Am I right?”
“Quite right. That’s exactly the situation. Now, are you in the frame of mind to listen to the biggest thing that there is in America to-day? Are you in a financial position to take advantage of an opportunity that may not recur for years? If you are, I’ll talk to you. If not, I’ll bid you ‘Good-bye,’ and go to someone else.”
“All right, Tom, I’m ready to listen, and willing to act if you can convince me.”
“I can convince you quick enough, but are you able to act, as well as ready?”
“Well, to tell you the truth, Tom, if you mean going in for a big wheat speculation, I’m able, but not willing.”
“I told you I wasn’t speculating. Wheat will be over a dollar a bushel before three months are past.”