Pulcifer held up a protesting hand.  It was that holding the cigar and he waved it slowly back and forth.  One of Galusha’s experiences had been to be a passenger aboard a tramp steamer loaded with hides when fire broke out on board.  The hides had smoked tremendously and smelled even more so.  As the dealer in real estate slowly waved his cigar back and forth, Galusha suddenly remembered this experience.  The mental picture was quite vivid.

“Wait, Perfessor,” commanded Horatio.  “Throttle her down.  Put her into low just a minute.  Say, Perfessor,” he lowered his voice and leaned forward in his chair:  “Say, Perfessor,” he repeated, “do you want to make some money?”

Galusha gazed at him uncomprehendingly.

“Why—­ah—­ Dear me!” he faltered.  “I—­that is—­well, really, I fear I do not fully grasp your—­ah—­meaning, Mr. Pulcifer.”

Raish seemed to find this amusing.  He laughed aloud.  “No reason why you should yet awhile, Perfessor,” he declared.  “I’ll try to get it across to you in a minute, though.  What I asked was if you wanted to make money.  Do, don’t you?”

“Why—­why, I don’t know.  Really, I—­”

“Go ’way, boy!” derisively.  “Go ’way!  Don’t tell me you don’t want money.  Everybody wants it.  You and me ain’t John D.’s yet, by a consider’ble sight.  Hey?  Haw, haw!  Anyhow I ain’t, and I’ll say this for you, Perfessor, if you are, you don’t look it.  Haw, haw!”

He laughed again.  Galusha glanced despairingly at the locked door.  Mr. Pulcifer leaned forward and gesticulated with the cigar just before his visitor’s nose.  The visitor leaned backward.

“If—­if you don’t mind,” he said, desperately, “I really wish you wouldn’t.”

“What?”

“Put that thing—­that cigar quite so near.  If you don’t mind.”

Raish withdrew the cigar and looked at it and his companion.

“Oh, yes, yes; I see!” he said, after a moment.  “You object to tobacco, then?”

Galusha drew a relieved breath.  “Why—­ah—­no,” he said, slowly, “not to—­ah—­tobacco.”  Then he added, hastily:  “But, really, Mr. Pulcifer, I must be going.”

Pulcifer pushed him back into the chair again.  His tone became brisk and businesslike.  “Hold on, Perfessor,” he said.  “You say you want to make money?”

Galusha had not said so, but it seemed scarcely worth while to deny the assertion.  And Raish waited for no denial.  “You want to make money,” he repeated.  “All right, so do I. And I’ve got a scheme that’ll help us both to make a little.  Now listen.  But before I tell you, you’ve got to give me your word to keep it dark; see?”

Galusha promised and Raish proceeded to explain his scheme.  Briefly it amounted to this:  Galusha Bangs, being a close acquaintance of Martha Phipps and Jethro Hallett, was to use that acquaintanceship to induce them to sell their shares in the Development Company.  For such an effort, if successful, on the part of Mr. Bangs, he, Horatio Pulcifer, was prepared to pay a commission of fifty dollars, twenty-five when he received Martha’s shares and twenty-five when Jethro’s were delivered.