been holding on to this unprofitable business all the time with the same idea. Well, I had a straight tip this morning from a high offiicial in the Inter-City that they've given up all thought of any further development of their lines in this section of the city and at the Transit Committee meeting Saturday they'll announce it. So your franchise isn't worth a nickel, Mr. Dillon, and never will be."
"That so?" Pop asked dully. He tried to conceal it but Carter's words had dashed a long-cherished hope. He had been figuring that some day the Inter-City people would come to him to buy his franchise. The new boarder seemed very convincing. Dillon believed him—almost. There was, however, some sixth sense that warned the old man to be cautious.
"I'll tell you what I'll do, Mr. Dillon," Carter went on. "I'll talk to this Wall Street man in the morning, if you say so, and get him to make you a definite offer through me. He doesn't wish to be identified personally with the deal himself. The amount he mentioned to me that he was willing to pay was—a thousand dollars."
"It's worth more than that," said Pop stubbornly.
"It isn't worth anything," Carter almost snapped back, dropping his disguise for an instant. Then quickly regaining it, "I think a thousand dollars would be a Godsend to you for that property. Shall I tell him you're interested?"
"Nope—I don't care to sell," said Pop.
Carter shrugged his shoulders. All right, he was saying to himself, if you're going to balk, I'll get
