“Well,” he said, with quick, business conciseness, “what do you want?”
Ezekiel was staggered out of his complacency.
“Wa'al,” he stammered, “I only reckoned to ask the news, ez we are old friends—I—”
“How much do you want?” repeated Blandford, impatiently.
Ezekiel was mystified, yet expectant. “I can't say ez I exakly understand,” he began.
“How—much—money—do—you—want,” continued Blandford, with frigid accuracy, “to get up and get out of this place?”
“Wa'al, consideren ez I'm travellin' here ez the only authorized agent of a first-class Frisco Drug House,” said Ezekiel, with a mingling of mortification, pride, and hopefulness, “unless you're travellin' in the opposition business, I don't see what's that to you.”
Blandford regarded him searchingly for an instant. “Who sent you here?”
“Dilworth & Dusenberry, Battery Street, San Francisco. Hev their card?” said Ezekiel, taking one from his waistcoat pocket.
“Corwin,” said Blandford, sternly, “whatever your business is here you'll find it will pay you better, a —— sight, to be frank with me and stop this Yankee shuffling. You say you have been with Demorest—what has HE got to do with your business here?”