“I don’t know,” he mused, “there are always plenty to do the unsafe thing, to make the ventures—and the world is not an over-nice place.”
She looked at him without replying.
“Adela, I am afraid you will explode some day. Put the explosion off, lessen it, deaden it. Some one is generally hurt when there is an explosion.”
She laughed at his figure. A few days later, however, the matter came up again unexpectedly. It was between the acts at the opera. Miss Anthon and Wilbur were walking up and down the foyer, having left Mrs. Anthon over a cooling drink.
“Do you want that stock?” Wilbur remarked abruptly. “When you first spoke of it the other day, it meant nothing to me,” he explained. “But Dinsmore has been acting queerly, booming things before they are ripe. Perhaps he thinks he can get out and take his profits before we have had a real trial and are on a safe footing. I must cut home at once, and try to keep my end up. Now Center and I control a third; Rantoul has another third. Dinsmore runs Rantoul. I must run Rantoul—you see?”
The girl nodded.
“This is only a side-show for Dinsmore,” Wilbur continued moodily, “but it’s my chance. I must have a hand on Rantoul; if I can’t bully him, buy him out.”
Miss Anthon understood swiftly the implications. She might become Wilbur’s partner. Boldly stated, such a proposition sounded indelicate, but this imputation amused her.
“How much would that take?”
“About fifty thousand.”