“Two per cent.,” says the man, trying to look severe and sober, but with a twinkle in his eyes.
“Business is business,” says Mark; “if we ask for s-somethin’ we hain’t entitled to we’re willin’ to pay for it. If you git two per cent, for thirty days, you ought to get three, anyhow, for f-f-fourteen.”
“If I pay now you’ll give me an extra one per cent, discount?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Come into the office and we’ll look up Bugg’s contract. How is it you haven’t a copy?”
“Most likely Silas Doolittle used his c-copy to kindle a f-f-fire with,” says Mark.
The man, whose name turned out to be Mr. Rushmore, took us into his office and told us to sit down, and pressed a button. In come a girl and he told her to bring the Silas Bugg contract. She came back in a minute and put it on his desk. Mr. Rushmore read it through and sort of frowned. Then he figured a little.
“According to this,” he says, “we owe you three hundred and sixteen dollars.”
“With the discount off?” says Mark.
“Yes; I figured that.”