_Office of the President._
They turned to the left and paused outside another door marked
"Entrance." Herbert thought he'd better remain in the corridor--the
President might smell a rat; so McAllister decided to enter alone. In an
adjoining suite he could see some men testing a fire-escape consisting
of a long bulging canvas tube, which reached from the window in the
direction of the street below. Someone was preparing to make a descent.
McAllister wished he could stop and see the fellow slide through; but
business was business, and he opened the door.
Inside he found himself in a large, handsome office. Three gum-chewing
boys idled at desks in front of a brass railing, behind which several
typewriters rattled continuously. On learning that McAllister desired to
see the President, one of the boys penetrated an inner office, and
presently beckoned our friend into another room hung with large maps and
photographs and furnished with a mahogany table, around which were
ranged a dozen vacant but impressive chairs. In the room beyond,
evidently the holy of holies, he could see an elderly man at a roll-top
desk smoking a large cigar.
McAllister was beginning to lose his nerve; everything seemed so
methodical and everybody so busy. Telephones rang incessantly; buzzers
whirred; the machines clacked; and the man inside smoked on serenely,
unperturbed, a wonderful example of the superiority of mind over matter.
Who was he? McAllister began to fear that he was going to make an ass of
himself. Then the magnate slowly raised his eyes; retreat became no
longer possible. With a start, McAllister found himself face to face
with the man with the bullet-hole in his forehead. The latter bowed
slightly.
"I am President Van Vorst," he announced in a dignified manner.
McAllister hastily tried to assume the expression and manner of a yokel.
"Er--er--" he stammered; "you see, the fact is, I want to sell some
stock."
The Colonel eyed him sternly.
"Stock? What stock?"
"In the Golden Touch."
The President slightly elevated his eyebrows.
"Stock in The Golden Touch? How much have you got?"
"About a thousand shares."
"Nonsense!" remarked the Colonel.
"No, it isn't," replied McAllister. "I have, really. What'll you pay for
it?"
"Five dollars a share."
"No, no," said McAllister, edging nervously toward the door. "I think
it's worth more than that."
"Come back here," muttered the other, getting up from his chair and
scowling. "What do you know about the value of The Golden Touch, I
should like to know?"
"Perhaps I know more than you think," answered McAllister, with an inane
imitation of airy nonchalance.
"See here," said the Colonel excitedly, "is this on the level? Can you
deliver a thousand?"
"Certainly."
The President sank back in his chair.
"Then you have located Murphy's stock!" he exclaimed. "You've beaten us!
That cursed certificate was issued just before--" He paused, and looked
sharply toward McAllister.
"Just before you made that strike," finished the clubman significantly.
"Hang you!" cried the Colonel angrily. "What do you ask?"
"Eighteen."
"Too much. Give you ten."
McAllister started for the door.
At that instant a telegraph-boy entered and handed the President a
flimsy yellow paper.
"Give you twelve," added the Colonel, casting his eye rapidly over the
telegram.
"Can't do business on that basis."
"Well, you've got us cornered. I'll break the record. I'll give you
fifteen."
McAllister hesitated.
"All right," said he rather reluctantly. "Cash down?"
"Of course," replied the Colonel. "I'll wait here for you. You might as
well look at this now." And he showed the clubman the paper.