“I think we could get it if we were to offer par.”
“Offer par!” thundered Thompson. “We could get Jim Weeks's holdings by paying par.”
Porter smiled indulgently. “I didn't say we'd pay par for anything. But I think if Mr. McNally were to sign a contract to pay par the day after the M. and T. election, that he could vote the stock on election day.”
McNally's plump hand came down softly on the table. “Good!” he said under his breath.
But Mr. Thompson failed to understand. “But the contract?” he said.
“Such a contract would be a little less valuable than that waste paper,” Porter replied politely, indicating the crumpled sheets on the table. Then he turned to McNally and asked, “How many men will it take to swing it?”
“Three, if we get the right ones. Yes, I know the men we want. I can get them all right,” he added, in response to the unspoken question. “It will need a little—oil, though, for the wheels.”
“I suppose so,” said Porter, dryly. “I think you'd better get at it right away. It's two o'clock now. The two-thirty express will get you to Manchester so that you can reach Tillman about seven-thirty. It doesn't pay to waste any time when you're trying to get ahead of Jim Weeks. He moves quick. Have you got money enough?”
McNally nodded.
Thompson had come to the surface again. He was breathing thickly, and his high, bald forehead was damp with perspiration. “That's bribery,” he said, “and it's—dangerous.”