sactions, including the one disastrous
period for the purpose of pointing out the flaw which had brought it
about.

Smalley inspected those figures long and earnestly, while Wix sat back
smiling. He had penetrated through that leathery exterior, had
discovered what no one else would have suspected: that in Smalley
himself there ran a long-leashed gambling instinct.

"But I couldn't possibly have my name connected with a matter of this
sort," was Smalley's last citadel of objection.

"Why should you?" agreed Wix, and then a diabolical thought came to
him, in the guise of an exquisite joke. He had great difficulty in
repressing a chuckle as he suggested it. "Why not put the stock in
Gilman's name?"

"It might be a very bad influence for the young man," protested
Smalley virtuously, but clutching at the suggestion. "He is thoroughly
trustworthy, however, and I suppose I can explain it to him as being a
really conservative investment that should have no publicity. I think
you said, Mr. Wix, that there are only twenty-five shares remaining to
be sold."

"That's all," Wix assured him. "You couldn't secure another share if
you wanted it."

"Very well, then, I think I shall take it."

"I have the certificate in my pocket," said Wix, and he produced the
identical certificate that he had offered Gilman some days before. It
had already been signed by the complacent Sam Glidden as secretary.
"Make this out to Gilman, shall I?" asked Wix, seating himself at
Smalley's desk, and poising his pen above the certificate.

"I believe so," assented Smalley, pursing up his lips.

With a smile all of careless pleasure with the world, Wix wrote the
name of Clifford M. Gilman, and signed the certificate as president.

"Now, your check, Mr. Smalley, for twenty-five hundred, and the new La
Salle Company is completely filled up, ready to start in business on a
brand-new basis."

With his lips still pursed, Smalley made out that check, and Wix shook
hands with him most cordially as he left the room. Outside the door he
chuckled. He was still smiling when he walked up to the cashier's
wicket, where young Gilman sat tense and white-faced. Wix indorsed the
check, and handed it through the wicket.

"Here's your twenty-five hundred, Cliff," said he. "You can turn it
over on the books of the bank as soon as you like."

Gilman strove to voice his great relief, but his lips quivered and his
eyes filled, and he could only turn away speechle