"You're quite right," says Waldo. "And we still have time for that chapter of—"
"So you have," says I; "only you got to ditch this Toothpicketus work until you sign an order to your lawyers about sellin' that land. Here, lemme draft it off for you. Twelve words. Likely they'll want an O. K. on the 'phone, too; but you won't mind that. Now your signature. Thanks. And say, any time you and Tidman need a crude commercial mind to help you out, just send for me."
Uh-huh! By three o'clock next day we owned the whole of that Apache Creek tract and had the goods to shove at Ballinger.
Was it a smear? It was—a smear plus. Tickled? Why, Old Hickory came so near smilin' I was afraid that armor-plate face of his was goin' to crack.
But say, don't tell the National Real Estaters' League about that commission check he slipped me. I might lose my amateur standin'.
CHAPTER VIII
BREAKING ODD WITH MYRA
Next time I'll pay attention. For Vee must have mentioned how this Cousin Myra of hers was comin'. Yes, I remember now. Said something about her being an old-maid niece of Auntie's who was due to drift in from Bermuda or California or somewhere, and that she might stay over a few days.
But it was no solemn warning as it had a right to be. So, by the time I gets this sudden hunch the other night about runnin' up for a little unlisted chat with Vee, I must have forgotten. Not one of my regular evenin's, you understand, nor any special date: I was just takin' a chance. And when the maid tells me Miss Vee and Auntie have gone out for an after-dinner stroll on the Drive, I chucks my new felt-rim straw on the hall table and remarks careless that, as Auntie ain't likely to do any Marathon before bedtime, I guess I'll wait.