“Half a million a year!” the young man gasped.
“More or less—at present rather more, I should say,” Brainard admitted carelessly. “Depends on the market for crude sulfur, you understand. It’s pretty strong just now. And there’s the copper to fall back upon, when the price of copper goes up. There’s no need to worry about the money.”
Just here they were interrupted by a boy with a card.
“Show the gentleman up!” Brainard exclaimed, glancing a second time at the card.
The magazine man rose reluctantly to go, saying:
“Another time, if you would be good enough to tell me more about your plans—”
“Don’t go!” Brainard interrupted warmly. “If you are interested, stay, and you will hear more about my great idea. This gentleman has come from Chicago by appointment to talk it over.”
“Thanks!”
“Why don’t you drop that magazine job?” Brainard suggested abruptly. “I shall need a secretary. I think you would be the right sort. Why not begin now?”
“Done!” the journalist exclaimed boyishly, and they shook hands. This was a millionaire after his own heart, who did things casually at the drop of the hat with the most surprising ease.