secret so honorably. I—I am willing to vote him ten shares or so if he will invest a thousand dollars with us."
A thousand! This was looking pretty big! Still, I was taking no chances.
"No, Mrs. Selford," I said pleasantly, "I have not changed my mind. I cannot really participate in your wonderful project. But, so that I can be one of you in fact as well as in spirit, I will take one share—just one. That is permissible?"
Sydney seemed relieved. He jumped at the chance. "Yes, yes, that's the best way," he agreed quickly. "We will be honored. Here—you can have a share of mine. Make your remittance to our Bursar, Mr. Fosdick, within the week. And remember—not a word to anybody!"
He handed me an engraved certificate, tastefully decorated in green and gold. "Springville Gold-Synthesis, Ltd." it read. One share—one hundred dollars! That was a real racket! I bowed my appreciation and pledged my utter silence. I accepted the congratulations of my fellow-conspirators. But I kept my check-book where it belonged, at the bottom of my inside coat pocket.
I sometimes wonder what would have happened if things had been allowed to progress normally, as they had started, undisturbed by viler considerations. To one who saw what was really happening, the situation was terribly funny. They were like kittens with wet feet, awkward and helpless and not a little frightened. They made half-hearted little dabs at sensationalism. They "dared" pitifully childish little coups. They were like babes in the wood. And then the wolf came along. Oscar muscled in.
Oscar was the chemist Sydney Smythe had dug up in New York and imported to run the production end of the affair. Oscar was paid a "decent" salary. And Oscar was no fool. He had connections. As a matter of fact, his metallurgical experience was along the lines of under-cover coining. He had scented game, and he was not in the least disappointed in what he found.
It happened just a month after my admission to the circle of the chosen. This time the Rev. Winters was entertaining, and, aside from the inevitable gold service—every member of the group, who had any claim at all to blue blood had one—it started like any other social gathering. Dinner came and went, and with the dessert came plump little bars of heavy, yellow metal, little sample ingots of synthetic gold.
"Our first dividends!" announced Mrs. Fosdick proudly.
Then Sydney Smythe climbed up on his feet with a worried look under his cheerful smirk.
"We have a little surprise to-night," he told us. "Dr. Baum, our production manager, has consented to give us a report. He was unfortunately unable to attend this excellent dinner, but he promised to be here immediately afterward."
Three Suspicious Visitors
A MAID appeared, at the door and looked questioningly at her mistress. Mrs. Winters beamed encouragingly. The maid stepped aside.
"Mr. Baum and—and his friends," she faltered.
Three men came into the room.
I knew Baum by sight. I knew the others too, or their kind. They were professional muscle-men, racketeers to the very eyebrows. And I guess there was no one there who didn’t know it, except Sydney Smythe and Mrs. Winters. She rose graciously to greet them, but Baum raised a beefy hand in protest.
"Sit right down," he said in a cat-and-canary voice. "The boys and me like to stand up. It's good for the feet. An' I got a couple of questions I want to ask you."
He stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, feet spread, his twin gorillas backing him up. He beamed down on us like a benevolent uncle, and his tones were suave and silky.
"Who's the treasurer?" he asked. T. Paterson rose.
"No—sit down," said Baum. "I just want to know who's who in this racket." He turned to Sydney, who was fumbling nervously with his ingot. "Prosperous lookin' crowd you got, Mr. Smith," he opined.
"Er—yes," Sydney murmured. It was the first time I ever knew him to fail to deliver his freezing "Smythe is the name!"
"You got a pretty good proposition, too," went on Baum. "There's good money in it."
T. Paterson Fosdick smiled. "We are satisfied," he admitted. "This is not exactly a philanthropic association." He patted his little lump of gold lovingly. "We appreciate our little dividends," he smiled.
"Yeah," grinned Baum. "I can guess it! You don't look much like Santy Claus to me. Listen here—this is a good racket, sure, but I ain't in on it like I should be. I'm the one that's back of it, doin' the real work down in the factory. I want my cut. Sit down!" he bellowed at Sydney, who was fidgeting about in his chair. "An' keep your trap shut till I'm done! You," he jabbed a thick thumb at Fosdick, "what you been doin' with the stuff I turn out?"
"Why," stammered T. Paterson, "we have these handsome gold services, and there are adornments for the ladies. And of course, these little dividends."
"Yeah?" sneered Baum. "What you plannin'? What you goin' to do with the stuff I turn out next month an' the next—all year an' the year after that? What in merry hell are you in this racket for?"
"We have no definite plans, Dr. Baum," our Bursar said rather plaintively. "This has been a very wonderful experience for us all, and we are a trifle dazed by its splendor."
"You look it!" growled Baum. "You got any ideas?"
"Why, I believe that our local jeweler, Mr. Travis, will be willing to guarantee a market for our output for the next few months, if we offer him a suitable
