“Three hundred thousand dollars,” MacCandless answered promptly.

“Listen,” said Matt Peasley.  “I have fifty thousand dollars of my own in bank this minute, but I will have to raise two hundred and fifty thousand more before I can afford to buy your vessel, even if we agree on that price, which does not seem probable.  I’ll give you two hundred and fifty thousand dollars for the steamer Narcissus; but when you turn her over to me I want a ship, not a piece of floating junk.  You’ll have to ship a new crank shaft, rewind the main motor, renew the Manila lines, overhaul the standing rigging, retube the condensers and dock her before handing her over to me.  She’s as foul as any hulk in Rotten Row.”

“Why, that will cost in the neighborhood of forty thousand dollars—­nearer fifty!” MacCandless declared.

“I know.  But for three hundred thousand dollars I can go to Sweden, build a smaller vessel than the Narcissus, have her right up to date, with two-thousand-horsepower oil-burning motors in her; and the saving in space due to motor installation, with oil tanks instead of coal bunkers, will enable me to carry fully as much cargo as the Narcissus.  Also, I’ll burn six tons of crude oil a day to your forty tons of coal a day in the Narcissus.  I’ll employ eight men less in my crew, and have a cleaner, faster and better ship.  The motor ship is the freighter of the future, and you know it.  Your Narcissus is out of date, and I’m only offering you two hundred and fifty thousand dollars because I can use her right away.”

“Young man,” said MacCandless, “you talk like a person that means business, but you overlook the fact that this company is neither bankrupt nor silly.  The directors will, I feel assured, agree to do all the work you specify, but the price must be three hundred thousand.  That will leave us two hundred and fifty thousand dollars net.”

“I’ll split the difference with you.”

MacCandless shook his head.

“Well, that ends our argument,” Matt answered pleasantly, and took up his hat.  “You can keep your big white elephant another eight years, Mr. MacCandless.  Perhaps some principal will come along then and make you another offer; and in the interim you can charge off about one hundred and fifty thousand dollars interest on the money tied up in the Narcissus.  Fine business—­I don’t think!” He nodded farewell and started for the door.

“But you say you have but fifty thousand dollars,” MacCandless protested.

“I said I’d have to get two hundred and fifty thousand dollars more.  Well, I’ll do it.”

“Quite a sum to raise these days,” MacCandless remarked doubtfully.

“Well, if you’ll give me a sixty-day option on the Narcissus at two hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars and agree to do the repairs on her, including dry-docking, cleaning and painting her up to the water line, I’ll take a ten-thousand-dollar chance, Mr. MacCandless, that I can raise the money.”