"I've just arranged a syndicate," laughed Robbie.
"But without money?"
"They don't know I've no money," said he, cheerfully. "But I'm going to get some more, just for safety, from you."
"Humph!" said Mr. Chauncey van Rensselaer, laconically.
"In the first place," said the other man, "you're going to sell those shares to-morrow morning at ten o'clock; and in the second you're going to sell short on T. & S. all you find takers for; and about eleven o'clock you're going to see the sky fall down and hit the earth."
"What's going to cause it?"
"For one thing, your being there selling short. You old Wall Street rounders are like vultures about a carcass—people will only have to see you hobbling down town, and they'll know there's a smash-up coming; and if you whisper you're selling T. & S. it'll come right then."
"There's something in that," admitted the old gentleman, after some hesitation.
"But that's not the thing I want to see you about," laughed Robbie. "The main thing is still to come. It is that you're going to make me a present right away of a couple of million dollars."
Mr. Chauncey van Rensselaer bounced slightly in his chair, and his eyes were very wide open.