igan won't sacrifice a good piece of
work in a dull season and pull off his men and teams."

Pat hoisted himself off his seat stiffly.

"Why don't your outfit sell instead of trying to buy?" he asked,
crossing to Lee's desk and obtaining a can of tobacco sitting there.
"I suppose they'll sell." He began to stuff his pipe, pressing the
tobacco into the bowl with a brown forefinger.

"Certainly; they would unload what they have in this rotten project so
fast that the bonds would smoke. But who in the devil would touch
them?"

"I might."

"You?" Gretzinger began to laugh. "What have you besides your outfit?
They're not taking worn-out fresnos in exchange to-day, thank you."

"And what are the three bondholders you represent worth?" Pat
inquired, in a nettled tone.

"Half a million each, or more."

Carrigan's brows rose contemptuously.

"Is that all?" he exclaimed. "Why, from the way you talked, I thought
they were real financiers! And they're only piffling tin-horns, after
all. What d'you know about that, Lee?" Pat turned to the engineer with
an amazed air.

Gretzinger's anger surged up anew.

"You never saw half a million in your life," he sneered.

"I could buy out all three of them with what I have in one trust
company in Chicago alone," was the unperturbed reply. "It's cheap
sports like you that make a real man sick. How much for the bonds? You
want to unload. Speak up; how much?"

Despite his anger, the other's brain perceived that the contractor was
in earnest.

"The amount of the face of both bonds and stock, with interest on the
former to date," he answered quickly.

"I buy only bargains," was Carrigan's dry statement.

"One hundred thousand then."

"You're still sailing way up in the clouds. The stock was a bonus,
Gretzinger; it cost your parties nothing. So it's only the bonds that
count. And the project is rotten, it may not be finished on time, be a
dead loss; your men want to get out from under; they'll jump at the
chance to sell, you say. All right. They can unload on me. Wire them
to deposit the bonds and stock in any New York bank and draw on
McDonnell for forty thousand dollars. That's what I'll give."

Gretzinger walked to the wall, where he reached down his overcoat and
put it on.

"The ditch will go to weeds first," he said.

"The offer's open until to-morrow night," said Pat.

"You bloodsuckers can't put anything over on me," was the Easterner's
departing declaration, as he