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 along to others with no interests but their own at heart? Others who—both originally and now—had made their own rules as they played the game, and made those rules solely to suit their own convenience?

"And what do you offer for the stock?" George finally inquired.

An expression of mute surprise photographed itself on three innocent faces. Then the surprise froze into scorn.

"Nothing!" snapped Silas Haley.

"Nothing!" George exploded. "Fifteen thousand shares are worth, at the market, $310,000, but with one year's successful business they will be double that. You ask me to give you outright practically three-quarters of a million dollars to secure for my company a loan of three millions. It's an outrage! It's highway robbery!" George's voice had risen to denunciatory tones.

T. O. Tompkins flushed at the accusation, but he did not speak. Silas N. Haley looked pained that a charitable offer could be so misconstrued. He turned and glanced appealingly to S. R. Blodgett. Blodgett wore an air of superior patience. He did not flush; he did not even look pained; he looked comprehension and—indulgence.

"No, it isn't, George; no, it isn't," he assured soothingly. "It's like that other transaction of