"P'raps they might—if I can't."
"But you know you can't," retorted the other, with a spasm of apprehension. "Else you'd have done it and—and got farther off."
"Well, p'raps I might. But that ain't all you come to say. Go on."
Viney thoughtfully scratched his lank cheek, peering sharply into Dan's face. "Things bein' what they are," he said, reflectively, "they're no more good to you than rags; not so much."
"All right. S'pose they ain't; you don't think I'm a-goin' to make you a present of 'em, do you?"
"Why no, I didn't think that. I'll pay—reasonable. But you must remember that they're no good to you at all—not worth rag price; so whatever you got 'ud be clear profit."
"Then how much clear profit will you give me?"
Viney's forefinger paused on his cheek, and his gaze, which had sunk to Dan Ogle's waistcoat, shot sharply again at his eyes. "Ten pounds," said Viney.
Dan chuckled, partly at the absurdity of the offer, partly because this bargaining for the unproducible began to amuse him. "Ten pound clear profit for me," he said, "an' eight hundred pound clear profit for you. That's your idea of a fair bit o' trade!"
"But it was mine first, and—and it's no good to you—you say so yourself!"