A. M. Chisholm

“ That's the whole thing."
"Sounds all right," said Lowrey. "How would it be if I came in with you and agreed to vote my stock any way you wished?"
"It wouldn't do," said Mortimer promptly. "We are a syndicate, and we want the absolute control among ourselves."
"So that it's freeze-out anyway," said Lowrey bitterly. "If I don't sell I get amalgamated and assessed out of my holdings. I know how that works; I've seen it done before, and it's just plain robbery but legal as hell. And if I do sell you give me a few cents a share. Nice, isn't it?" ”

“ The sick engineer looked long at the photograph of his family, and his chest rose and fell with some inward emotion.
"I'll take your offer," he said, "because I have to. I'd like to keep the stock, if it wasn't for the wife and the kiddies. It's hell being poor—when you've got a family. Not married, are you?"
"No," admitted Mortimer, thinking of Maisie.
"Then if you did happen to lose your money it wouldn't worry you much," said Lowrey with a grim smile. "Not that there seems to be much chance of your losing it. You can look after yourself, I guess. Take a pretty smart man to skin you, eh? ”

“ Lowrey considered.
"I should think thirty cents a share would be about right."
"Thirty cents!" exclaimed Mortimer. "Why, man alive, your stock wouldn't sell on the market for five!"
"I'm not selling it there," retorted the sick engineer. "You want it pretty bad, or you wouldn't be here. I'm not fitting it go for ten cents, anyway."
After half an hour of bargaining Mortimer had raised his offer to fifteen cents and Lowrey had lowered his demands to twenty-five. There they stuck: a deadlock appeared imminent. Mortimer wondered if, after all, the rather had heard from the Silver Queen man. ”