"I say," he breaks in, "are—are you trying to sell me something?"
"Me?" says I. "Gosh, no! I hadn't quite got to that part, but my idea is to give you a chance to unload something on us. This Apache Creek land of yours."
"Really," says Waldo, "I don't follow you at all. My land?"
"Sure!" says I. "All this shaded pink. That's yours, you know. And as it lays now it's about as useful as an observation car in the subway. But if you'll swap it for preferred stock in our power company—"
"No," says he, crisp and snappy. "I owned some mining stock once, and it was a fearful nuisance. Every few months they wanted me to pay something on it, until I finally had to burn the stuff up."
"That's one way of gettin' rid of bum shares," says I. "But look; this is no flimflam gold mine. This is sure-fire shookum—a sound business proposition backed by one of the—"
"Pardon me," says T. Waldo, glarin' annoyed through the big panes, "but I don't care to have shares in anything."
"Oh, very well," says I. "We'll settle on a cash basis, then. Now, you've got no use for that tract. We have. Course, we can get other land just as good, but yours is the handiest. If you've ever tried to wish it onto anyone, you know you couldn't get a dollar an acre. We'll give you five."
"Please go away," says he.
"Make it six," says I. "Now, that tract measures up about—"