“It’s a great game,” returned the journalist.
“Think up that ‘call-me-Bob’ business yourself?”
“I got it from a reliable source.”
“Damn lie,” remarked Poultney Masters equably. “Did the work, though. Banneker, why didn’t you let me know you were in the market?”
“In the stock-market? What has that—”
“You know what market I mean,” retorted the great man with unconcealed contempt. “What you don’t know is your own game. Always seek the highest bidder before you sell, my boy.”
“I’ll take that from no man—” began Banneker hotly.
Immediately he was sensible of a phenomenon. His angry eyes, lifted to Poultney Masters’s glistening little beads, were unable to endure the vicious amusement which he read therein. For the first time in his life he was stared down. He passed on, followed by a low and scornful hoot.
Meeting Willis Enderby while charge and counter-charge still rilled the air, Io put the direct query to him:
“Cousin Billy, what is the truth about the Laird-Masters story?”