H. A. Lamb

“ In the office, however, was no visitor, only Miss Farley, the stenographer; Riggs, the clerk-of-all-work, and Blum, the lad of postage stamps and filing cabinets. These persons constituted the accessory members of the firm. Cawston and Heim were the firm.
“Well,” he ruminated, for business was slack, and Martin Wilbur was an attractive prospect, “he gets in to New York t'morrow morning. Comes down here—see? When he shoves his face in the door, the people out there are all busy.” ”

“ In response Miss Farley, from the sound-proof telephone-booth in the outer office, called him. There ensued an interesting conversation, of which Wilbur heard Cawston's end, and was convinced that a certain wealthy customer wanted Phœnix stock badly, and that Cawston had none to give him.
“Phœnix is up another quarter point, Mr. Wilbur,” exclaimed the senior partner. “You see, people are getting wise to what a good thing it is, and we can't pick up enough of it to satisfy 'em. Those that have it aren't selling. ”

“ Frame 'em?”'
“I'd say,” responded Cawston, “that they burn 'em. Not one in a hundred raises a howl when he's been milked. Why? It's human nature. Especially a man from a small town—and ginks are thick in New York, too—he hates to let the neighbors know he's been speculating and lost his money.”
“Well, handle Wilbur right, Al. I can use my two-fifths of that five thousand bucks. Can you slip me a century to-day, Al? I want to date up Miss Farley. She's a queen where the lilies grow.”
Heim took the bills Cawston handed him, after noting the transaction in a memorandum. ”

“ I tip Wilbur off that the Phœnix stock has gone up five points while he was hitting the ties getting here. All right. He's anxious about it now. More movie stuff—cut-in of me refusing a wealthy investor a five-hundred-share block over the wire, Miss Farley being the investor.”
“Don't I figure in this, Al?”
“Then you enter. You're my broker—see? By the way, cut out that knowin' air. You're a busy man. You've just bought a four-hundred-share block in the stock market, and you give me the certificate. I tell Wilbur I ought to let my wealthy client have the stock; it's going up all the time. ”

“ Martin Wilbur to see you, sir,” Miss Farley's cool voice came to him.
“Bring him in in a minute—three minutes.” Cawston reflected that it would be well to let the man from Flint wait, but not too long. “And Miss Farley—keep calling me every now and then. Don't forget the rich-investor stuff when I push the buzzer. When I give you two buzzes, call Heim quick—see? Keep Blum busy and camouflage some dictation yourself. Get it? All right.”
He leaned back, stroking his chin gently. A glance around the sanctum satisfied him. An orderly pile of correspondence on the desk ”

“ Martin Wilbur”—Cawston glanced at another letter on his desk—“owns a small manufacturing plant in Flint. Has several years' profits salted away. Proud of it. And it must be a fair wad, because he manufactures copper fixtures. Wants to invest it all in something safe and profitable.”
“Sure he's a real come-along guy—not a wise one?” Heim asked indifferently. He trusted Cawston's judgment implicitly.
“Yep.” A rare smile twitched at the senior partner's thin mouth. “Can't you see him, Mac? One of the prominent citizens of Flint—owns and operates a Henry Ford, f.o.b. Detroit ”

“ There were two entrances, and the man she wanted to meet might come by either. She took up a position by the wall facing the elevators. In this way she would be sure to see him.
Moments passed, while the girl chewed coolly at her gum. Men entered and left. ”