"Bibbs," he said, "I don't like to butt in very often this way, and
when I do I usually wish I hadn't--but for Heaven's sake what have
you been buying that ole busted inter-traction stock for?"
Bibbs leaned back from his desk. "For eleven hundred and fifty-five
dollars. That's all it cost."
"Well, it ain't worth eleven hundred and fifty-five cents. You ought
to know that. I don't get your idea. That stuff's deader'n Adam's
cat!"
"It might be worth something--some day."
"How?"
"It mightn't be so dead--not if we went into it," said Bibbs, coolly.
"Oh!" Sheridan considered this musingly; then he said, "Who'd you
buy it from?"
"A broker--Fansmith."
"Well, he must 'a' got it from one o' the crowd o' poor ninnies that
was soaked with it. Don't you know who owned it?"
"Yes, I do."
"Ain't sayin', though? That it? What's the matter?"
"It belonged to Mr. Vertrees," said Bibbs, shortly, applying himself
to his desk.
"So!" Sheridan gazed down at his son's thin face. "Excuse me,"
he said. "Your business." And he went back to his own room. But
presently he looked in again.
"I reckon you won't mind lunchin' alone to-day"--he was shuffling
himself into his overcoat--"because I just thought I'd go up to the
house and get THIS over with mamma.
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