As Bob went down the stairs his head was fairly whizzing with plans. This thing had taken strong hold of him. He had longed for many months to get possession of that ranch but had never seriously thought of it as a possibility. But if Jim Crill would risk the money, it would be the great opportunity. Five thousand acres of cotton might make a big fortune in one year. "Of course"--doubt had its inning as he drove north toward El Centro--"if he failed it would mean, instead of a fortune, a lifetime debt." Yet he was so feverishly hopeful he let out the little machine a few notches beyond the speed limit. At El Centro he went direct to the Crill bungalow. Mrs. Barnett opened the door when he knocked, opened it about fourteen inches, and stood looking at him as though he were a leper and had eaten onions besides. "Is Mr. Crill in?" Bob asked. "Mr. Crill is not in." She bit off each word with the finality of a closed argument and shut the door with a whack so decisive it was almost a slam. Bob found Jim Crill in the lobby of the hotel, smoking; he sat down by him, and concentrated for a moment on the line of argument he had thought out. "Mr. Crill, cotton is selling at six cents now. It won't go any lower." "It doesn't need to as far as I'm concerned." The old gentleman puffed his pipe vigorously. "It will be at least ten cents this fall." Bob was figuring on the back of an old envelope. "Much more next year." Then he opened up on the Red Butte Ranch. Bob never did such talking in his life. He knew every step of his plan, for he had thought out fifty times just what he would do with that ranch if he had it. He outlined this plan clearly and definitely to Jim Crill. He carefully estimated every expense, and allowed liberally for incidentals. He figured the lowest probable price for cotton, and in addition discussed the possibilities of failure. "I feel sure," he concluded, definitely, "that I can put it through, that I can make from fifty to a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in profits on one crop. If you want to risk it and stake me, I'll go fifty-fifty on the profits." "No partnership for me," Crill shook his head vigorously. He had made some figures on an envelope and sat scowling at them. He had a good deal of idle money. It this crop paid out--and he felt reasonably sure Bob would make it go--it would give him $10,000 interest on the $100,000; and his half of the cotton seed would be worth at least $10,000 more. Twenty thousand returns against nothing was worth some risk. "Besides," added Bob, "the lease itself, if cotton goes up, will be worth fifty thousand next year." "That's what Reedy Jenkins said," remarked the old gentleman, dryly. "Just left here an hour ago--wanted to borrow money to pay the rent this year and let the land lie idle." Bob's heart beat uneasily. "Did you lend it to him?" "No!" The old man almost spat the word out. "He owes me too much already."