"Think I can fix you up all right," said the proprietor; "and there's one sure thing, you can't put your money anywhere where it's safer or 'll grow faster. Why—"
At that moment a man in a pepper-and-salt suit went by the door.
"'Scuse me a minute," said the dealer, rushing to the door and sending a shrill whistle down the street. The man in the pepper-and-salt turned, and the dealer beckoned him into the little office.
"You know that five-thousand-acre block you bought last week," he said in a low voice, but loud enough to be heard by the Harrises. "Bought it at six dollars, didn't you? Well, I can give you seven to-day, for a quick sale."
"Couldn't think of it, my dear fellow," protested the lucky buyer. "I simply couldn't think of it."
"Couldn't think of making five thousand dollars in a week? It don't look too bad to a working man like me."
"But it's nowhere near the value of the land. Why, they're selling stuff in Illinois today that ain't to be compared with it at a hundred and fifty dollars an acre. It's only a question of time until this is as much. You've got better land here, and better climate, and you're a thousand miles nearer the Pacific Ocean, that's going to carry the commerce of the future. Seven dollars? It's an insult to Canada to mention such a price."
"Well, say," continued the real estate man, in a still more confidential tone, "I was allowing myself a little margin on the deal, even at seven dollars. But I had a man in here a few minutes ago that'll buy that block at eight-fifty. I'll pay you eight dollars net to put it through."
"Sorry, but he'll have to get down deeper than that if he wants it. Tell him I might consider ten dollars, but mind, I ain't making any promise." And the man in the pepper-and-salt suit continued his course down the street, just the same as if he were not making five thousand dollars a week.
"Big capitalist from New York, that fellow," explained the dealer.
"Simply coining money up here, and always salting it into more land."