“I’m not well to-day,” he said, almost in a whisper.

“Let’s look at this thing from all sides,” went on Clay cheerfully.  “If we decide by a majority of the voting stock—­and I’m carryin’ enough proxies so that I’ve got control—­that you’d ought to have a whalin’, why, o’ course, there’s nothin’ to it but get to business and make a thorough job.”

“Maybe I didn’t do right about Maddock’s.”

“No mebbe about that.  You acted like a yellow hound.”

“I’m sorry.  I apologize.”

“I don’t reckon I can use apologies.  I might make a bargain with you.”

“I’ll be glad to make any reasonable bargain.”

“How’d this do?  I’ll vote my stock and proxies in the Bromfield Punishment Company, Limited, against the whalin’, and you vote yore stock and proxies in the Bird Cage Company to return the present board and directorate.”

“That’s coercion.”

“Well, so it is.”

“The law—­”

“Did you go hire a lawyer for an opinion before you paid Durand to do me up?”

“You’ve got no right to hold me a prisoner here to help Whitford.”

“All right, I won’t.  I’ll finish my business with you and when I’m through, you can go to the annual meetin’—­if you feel up to travelin’ that far.”

“I’ll give you a thousand dollars to let me alone.”

“That’d be a thousand and fifty you had given me, wouldn’t it?” returned Lindsay gayly.

Tears of vexation stood in Bromfield’s eyes.  “All right.  Let me go.  I’ll be fair to Whitford and arrange a deal with him.”

“Get the stockholders who’re with you on the ’phone and tell ’em to vote their stock as Whitford thinks best.  Get Whitford and tell him the fight’s off.”

“If I do, will you let me go?”

“If you don’t, we’ll return to the previous question—­the annual meeting of the Bromfield Punishment Company, Limited.”

Bromfield got busy with the telephone.

When he had finished.  Clay strolled over to a bookcase, cast his eyes over the shelves, and took out a book.  It was “David Harum.”  He found an easy-chair, threw a leg over one arm, and presently began to chuckle.

“Are you going to keep me here all day?” asked his host sulkily.

“Only till about four o’clock.  We’re paired, you and me, so we’ll both stay away from the election.  Why don’t you pick you a good book and enjoy yoreself?  There’s a lot of A 1 readin’ in that case over there.  It’ll sure improve yore mind.”

Clarendon ground his teeth impotently.

His guest continued to grin over the good stories of the old horse-trader.  When he closed the book at last, he had finished it.  His watch told him that it was twenty minutes to five.  Bromfield’s man was at the door trying to get in.  He met Lindsay going out.

“No, I can’t stay to tea to-day, Mr. Bromfield,” the Arizonan was saying, a gleam of mirth in his eyes.  “No use urging me.  Honest, I’ve really got to be going.  Had a fine time, didn’t we?  So long.”