"Perhaps; but we've managed to rub along, eh?
Well, if these are trifles, what's on ?" "Air!" "Air ?" Waldron's match poised a moment, as with a slight widening of the pale blue eyes he surveyed his partner.

"Why--er--what do you mean, Flint ?" "The Air Trust!" "Eh ?" And Waldron lighted his cigar.
"A monopoly of breathing privileges!" "Ha! Ha!" Waldron's laugh was as mirthful as a grave-yard raven's croak.
"Nothing to it, old man.

Forget it, and stick to--" "Of course! I might have expected as much from you!" retorted the Billionaire tartly.

"You've got neither imagination nor--" "Nor any fancy for wild-goose chases," said Waldron, easily, as he sat down in the big leather chair.

"Air?
Hot air, Flint! No, no, it won't do! Nothing to it nothing at all." For a moment the Billionaire regarded him with a look of intense irritation.