“It's going to be like the mining-camp 'lulu hand,'” was his mental preface to his plans. “It can be played only once in a sitting-in; it has got to be backed with good bluff, but it's a peach when it works. And what am I a promoter for? What have I studied foreign corporation laws for?” Mr. Fogg took off his hat and mopped his bald spot, wrinkling his eyelids in deep reflection. “The idea is,” he mused, “I'm a candidate for the presidency of the Vose line at to-morrow's meeting. But I haven't been elected yet!” However, Mr. Fogg's preliminary sniffing at the affairs of the Vose line had informed him where he could pick up at least ten scattered shares of their stock. He figured that before midnight he would have them in his possession. As to the next day and the next steps, well, the nerve of a real American plunger clings to life until the sunset of all hopes, even as the snake's tail, though the serpent's head be bruised beyond repair, is supposed to wriggle until sunset. He despatched a telegram at New Haven. He received a reply at Providence, and he read it and felt like a gambler who has drawn a card to fill his bobtail hand. When a design is brazen and the game is largely a bluff, plain, lucky chance must be appealed to. The telegram had been addressed to Attorney Sawyer Franklin, in a Maine city. It had requested an appointment with Mr. Franklin on the following morning. The reply had stated that Mr. Franklin was critically ill in a hospital, but that all matters of business would be attended to by his office force, as far as was possible. Attorney Sawyer Franklin, as Mr. Fogg, of course, was fully aware, was clerk of the Vose line corporation, organized according to the Maine law as a “foreign corporation,” under the more liberal regulations which have attracted so many metropolitan promoters into the states of Maine and New Jersey. XVIII ~ HOW AN ANNUAL MEETING WAS HELD--ONCE! O, a ship she was rigged and ready for sea, And all of her sailors were fishes to be! Windy-y-weather, Stormy-y-weather! When the wind blows we're all together! --The Fishes. Fletcher Fogg, suave, dignified, radiating business importance, freshened by a barber's ministrations, walked into the Franklin law-offices the next morning at nine-thirty. He announced himself to a girl typist, and she referred him to a young man who came forth from a private room. “I have power of attorney from Mr. Franklin to transact his routine business,” explained the young man. “Of course, if it's a new case or a question of law--” “Neither, neither, my dear sir! Simply a matter of routine. But,” he leaned close to the young man's ear, “strictly private.” Mr. Fogg himself closed the door of the inner office when the two had retired there. “One of your matters to-day, I believe, is the annual meeting of the Vose line. I am a stockholder.” Fogg produced a packet of certificates and laid them on the desk.