Direct argument, threat, entreaty, explanation, were to Sponley unwonted weapons. His strategy did not favor the frontal attack. He was a master at the art of making his opponent do the fighting, of giving him plenty of rope, and allowing him to entangle himself in it. But here with John Bagsbury it seemed to be the other way about. There was about John the strict economy of effort which one sees in a skilled fencer: never a word that was not necessary; never a flourish of high-sounding sentiment; simply alertness and repose and the patience of the everlasting hills. So, though Sponley waited, he knew it was in vain, and at last began doing what he had so often compelled other men to do. “This is the situation. I’m making this proposition in your interest and in my own, too. I ought to have told you that at the start. I’m fighting Pickering in this deal. I’ve got a big job on my hands, but I can do it. There are a few fellows who’ll be with me, but not to any great extent. If I don’t make a lot of money, I’ll be busted; but I’m going to make it. I’m not going it blind. It’s natural that in a big fight like this I don’t like to see you helping out the other fellow. I don’t ask you to help me; all I want is that you shall be neutral. It’s bad enough to be up against Pickering without having to fight you, too.” It had a plausible sound not unsatisfactory to Sponley; but John’s next question cut right to the root of it. “How long ago did you go into this deal?” Little more than twenty-four hours had passed since the Bear had seen and seized this opportunity. He answered easily:-- “Oh, a couple of months. I began selling September lard in May.” But he could not guess from the unexpressive face whether or not the Banker knew he had lied. John’s silence had in it a sting which urged Sponley’s faculties to their best efforts. “This is no whining for mercy, you understand. It’s no figure of speech when I say that your interest lies the same way.” He paused as though to marshal his thoughts; then continued:-- “Pickering’s a good man, but an old-timer. Even in his day lard was never so easy to corner as it looked; but now when they can make it without hogs, it’s impossible for a man to hold up the market. Right in this city there are tanks of lard, not tierced, that Pickering has never heard of; he will hear of ’em before he gets through. I have fifteen thousand tierces myself in the warehouses that he’ll never know exists until it hits him.