"But that is the smallest part of it," said Bob. "To farm that five thousand acres in cotton this season would take round a hundred thousand dollars, and," he laughed, "I lack considerable over ninety-nine thousand of having that much."
"Lend it to yourself out of money you are lending for old Crill," suggested Noah.
After Bob dropped Noah at the Greek restaurant—"Open Day and Night—Waffles"—he drove down the street, stopped in front of an office building, and went up to see a lawyer that he knew.
"T. J.," he began at once, "I want you to see what is the lowest dollar that will buy the Red Butte Ranch and its equipment. Reedy Jenkins can't farm it, and he can't afford to pay $15,000 rent and let it lie idle. You ought to be able to get it cheap. Get a rock-bottom offer, but don't by any means let him know who wants it."
As Bob went down the stairs his head was fairly whizzing with plans. This thing had taken strong hold of him. He had longed for many months to get possession of that ranch but had never seriously thought of it as a possibility. But if Jim Crill would risk the money, it would be the great opportunity. Five thousand acres of cotton might make a big fortune in one year.
"Of course"—doubt had its inning as he drove north toward El Centro—"if he failed it would mean, instead of a fortune, a lifetime debt." Yet he was so feverishly hopeful he let out the little machine a few notches beyond the speed limit. At El Centro he went direct to the Crill bungalow.
Mrs. Barnett opened the door when he knocked, opened it about fourteen inches, and stood looking at him as though he were a leper and had eaten onions besides.
"Is Mr. Crill in?" Bob asked.
"Mr. Crill is not in." She bit off each word with the finality of a closed argument and shut the door with a whack so decisive it was almost a slam.
Bob found Jim Crill in the lobby of the hotel, smoking; he sat down by him, and concentrated for a moment on the line of argument he had thought out.