crowded. He pushed his way to the counter and authoritatively signalled the owner, who happened—just happened—to pop out of his cubby hole as the traction man approached.
"How much are lots this morning?" he demanded.
"The very choicest ones are gone. There is a big demand. But we are still selling all alike for two hundred and fifty dollars."
Boyd looked at the chart. Its red patches were now labelled prominently with the names of the purchasers. All the centre part around the block controlled by Carstair had been sold out.
"Well, I'll take a flyer on those two lots in Block I," he said, drawing out his check book.
His companions caught him at it, and chaffed him unmercifully.
"I'm just taking it for a little turn," he explained. "I like to make my expenses. Can't lose much. It's fun to play the game. Look here: George is the only one of us not in this. Aren't you going to sit in the game, George? Going to be the only one out?"
They turned their batteries on George Scott. He was in the minority. Soon he threw up his hands.
"All right, all right! I'll buy one of the damn things." He studied the map, then made his way to the counter. "I'll take one lot next Mr. Boyd's in I," he said. The clerk filled in the contract of sale. Scott looked at it. "See here, young man," he cried. "You've got this all wrong. You're charging me four hundred dollars."
"Yes sir, that's the price," said the young man.
Scott raised an indignant protest. The owner came out of his little office.
"The price of lots has been raised throughout," he told Scott. "We did not intend to do so; but we find that already the central lots are selling like blazes outside. The market and the demand warrants it. Ah, Mr. Boyd, you got your lots not a moment too soon. I'll give you a hundred dollars profit on them and take them back."
But Boyd would not sell. He had fooled George Scott to the tune of considerable money, and he was very much pleased. He
