“I’ve seen enough of this thing you are doing, now—this ‘Seaside Idyl’ stuff—to know that mine is a hundred per cent. better,” sneered the hermit.
“Whew! You’ve a good opinion of your story, haven’t you?” asked Mr. Hammond. “Did you ever write a scenario before?”
“What is that to you?” returned the other. “I don’t get you at all, Mr. Hammond. All this cross-examination——”
“That will do now!” snapped the manager. “I am not obliged to take your story. You can try it elsewhere if you like,” and he shoved the newspaper-wrapped package toward the end of his desk and nearer the hermit’s hand. “I tell you frankly that I won’t take any story without knowing all about the author. There are too many comebacks in this game.”
“What do you mean?” demanded the other stiffly.
“I don’t know that your story is original. Frankly, I have some doubt about that very point.”
The old man did not change color at all. His gray eyes blazed and he was not at all pleasant looking. But the accusation did not seem to surprise him.
“Are you trying to get it away from me for less than you offered?” he demanded.
“You are an old man,” said Mr. Hammond hotly, “and that lets you get away with such a suggestion as that without punishment. I begin to believe that there is something dead wrong with you, John—or whatever your name is.”
He drew back the packet of manuscript, opened a drawer, put it within, and locked the drawer.