Langdon nodded eagerly.

“Then put it into Altacoola land.”

“The naval base?” gasped Langdon.

Norton nodded.

“Now you’ve hit it.  The Government will select Altacoola for a naval base.  Then land will jump ’way up to never, and you’ll clean up a hundred thousand at the least.  Isn’t it simple?  There are, a thousand people with money who would just love to have this chance.  And I’m giving it to you because of our friendship.  I want to do you a good turn.  I’ve got my money in there.”

Young Langdon was visibly impressed.

“You’ve always—­treated me right, Charlie; you’ve been for me, I know.  But suppose the Government doesn’t select Altacoola.  Gulf City’s in the running.”

Norton laughed sarcastically.

“Gulf City is a big bunch of mud flats.  Besides, I’ll tell you something else.  Just between us, remember.”  He waited for the boy’s eager nod before he went on.  “The big men are behind Altacoola.  Standard Steel wants Altacoola, and what Standard Steel wants from Congress you can bet your bottom dollar Standard Steel gets.  They know their business at No. 10 Broadway.  Now, then, are you satisfied?”

Randolph was more than satisfied.  Already he felt himself rich, and honestly rich, too, for Norton had convinced him that there was no reason why he should not use the $50,000 of his father’s, when it had to lie in the bank anyhow all winter, and he would have it back in time to use on the plantation in the spring when it was needed.  How proud of him his father would be when he showed him a clear profit of $100,000!

“I’ll go get the drafts at once, Charlie, and I’m mighty much obliged to you,” he said, with gratitude in his voice.

Norton’s smile was one of deep satisfaction.

“That’s all right, Randolph.  You know I want to do anything I can for you.”

Randolph was starting for his room when Haines and Cullen turned sharply around the corner of the hotel desk.  Again Bud and the young Southerner accidentally collided.

“Where are you going?  Can’t you look out?” blurted Langdon.

Haines grinned.

“Guess it’s your fault this time.”

“Oh, it is, is it?” irritably replied Randolph, who as the “young marse” had been accustomed to considerable deference on the plantation.  “Well, take that,” he angrily cried, aiming a savage swing at Haines.

The reporter’s athletic training proved of ready service.  Dodging under the clenched fist, he turned dexterously, seized young Langdon’s outstretched wrist and bent the arm down over his (Haines’) shoulder as though to throw the young attacker with the wrestler’s “flying mare.”  Langdon was helpless, as Haines had also secured his free hand, but instead of completing the “throw” the reporter walked away with his foe held securely on his back—­to put him to bed, a kindly service, in view of Randolph’s mental state.