Let me go.
I'll be fair to Whitford and arrange a deal with him."
"Get the stockholders who're with you on the 'phone and tell 'em to
vote their stock as Whitford thinks best. Get Whitford and tell him
the fight's off."
"If I do, will you let me go?"
"If you don't, we'll return to the previous question--the annual
meeting of the Bromfield Punishment Company, Limited."
Bromfield got busy with the telephone.
When he had finished. Clay strolled over to a bookcase, cast his eyes
over the shelves, and took out a book. It was "David Harum." He found
an easy-chair, threw a leg over one arm, and presently began to chuckle.
"Are you going to keep me here all day?" asked his host sulkily.
"Only till about four o'clock. We're paired, you and me, so we'll both
stay away from the election. Why don't you pick you a good book and
enjoy yoreself? There's a lot of A 1 readin' in that case over there.
It'll sure improve yore mind."
Clarendon ground his teeth impotently.
His guest continued to grin over the good stories of the old
horse-trader. When he closed the book at last, he had finished it.
His watch told him that it was twenty minutes to five. Bromfield's man
was at the door trying to get in. He met Lindsay going out.
"No, I can't stay to tea to-day, Mr. Bromfield," the Arizonan was
saying, a gleam of mirth in his eyes. "No use urging me. Honest, I've
really got to be going. Had a fine time, didn't we? So long."
Bromfield used bad language.
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