k.

McWade confessed that he was neither angry nor offended at the recent
attitude of suspicion--he was merely amused. It made him laugh. The
idea of his firm turning a crooked trick, when it was an established
institution as strong as Gibraltar and as conservative as a national
bank, was ridiculous. He and Stoner could point with pride to an
unbroken record of successes and to a list of satisfied investors as
long as a Santa Fe time-table. Desert Scorpion stock would go to two
dollars, and five would get you ten if you didn't think so. Now then,
step lively!

The refunding of money halted; there was a deal of noisy argument. Some
of the disgruntled investors still insisted upon selling out; others
decided to hold on; even a few asked to repurchase the stock they had
turned in, and this they were reluctantly permitted to do at an advance
of fifty per cent.

When the last caller had disappeared, Gray inquired, curiously: "How
are you going to make good on your assertion that the stock will rise?"

"Easy!" said Stoner. "I'll change into my old clothes, put four mud
chains on my car, and drive up, to the exchange in a hurry, then give
some gabby guy a tip to grab Desert Scorpion for me at a dollar and a
half--all he can get. After that I'll shoot out of town on high, with
the cut-out open. There will be a string of cars after me inside of
half an hour, and the stock will be up before I can get back."

"We'll make good, all right," McWade asserted. "Those customers are in
luck dealing with a house like us. All they expect is a chance to get
out with a profit and sting the next fellow. They don't want oil; they
want a run for their money and a quick turn. We give it to them."

"And do they always buy your issues?"

"I ain't saying they do. Sometimes they're cold until you put on the
Indian sign. But all you have to do when stock don't sell is to raise
the price. Oh, if you know how, it ain't hard to make an honest dollar
in the oil business!" Mr. McWade smiled with conscious satisfaction.

"I'm sure of it," Gray said, heartily. "There is so little competition."

CHAPTER XIII

Ma Briskow always had been known as a woman without guile, but of late
she had developed rare powers of dissimulation. She was, in fact,
leading a double life, and neither her husband nor her daughter
suspected the extent of her deception. To the patrons of the Burlington
Notch Hotel she was merely a drab, indistinct, washed-out old woman