"It is for Bobby," he told himself, "and I want Bobby, and no one
else, to run it. Joe would want to take charge, naturally. Taylor
won't. He knows nothing of the business."
He walked downtown next morning busily formulating his scheme. At
the office he found Newmark already seated at his desk, a pile of
letters in front of him. Upon Orde's boisterous greeting his nerves
crisped slightly, but of this there was no outward sign beyond a
tightening of his hands on the letter he was reading. Behind his
eye-glasses his blue, cynical eyes twinkled like frost crystals. As
always, he was immaculately dressed in neat gray clothes, and
carried in one corner of his mouth an unlighted cigar.
"Joe," said Orde, spinning a chair to Newmark's roll-top desk and
speaking in a low tone, "just how do we stand on that upper
peninsula stumpage?"
"What do you mean? How much of it is there? You know that as well
as I do--about three hundred million."
"No; I mean financially."
"We've made two payments of seventy-five thousand each, and have
still two to make of the same amount."
"What could we borrow on it?"
"We don't want to borrow anything on it," returned Newmark in a
flash.
"Perhaps not; but if we should?"
"We might raise fifty or seventy-five thousand, I suppose.
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