“But you know its habits?”
“You’re joking, Mr. Ashe.” Anything akin to humor was not to be tolerated when it touched a thing so sacred as one of the bits of business impedimenta.
“I’m exceedingly serious. What can you tell me of the habits and personal peculiarities of the thing?”
“A demand note,” said Grierson, with musty gravity, “is a negotiable instrument running for an indefinite period. It differs from a time note in that it may be presented and payment demanded”—he accented the word “demanded” in a manner that Jim thought vindictive—“at any time the holder chooses. Am I clear?”
“Perfectly—and disquietingly. I am to understand that if you give a man a demand note he may drop in on you casually whenever the notion seizes him and make you—er—in the undignified language of the soap salesman, come across? Is that it?”
Mr. Grierson nodded, frowned, peered anxiously at his ledger as if he feared a figure or two might sneak away from him while his attention was distracted.
“Can you say anything cheerful about one of them?” Jim persisted.
“The only cheerful thing about a demand note, Mr. Ashe, is to know you are able to pay it whenever it turns up—which most people are not.”
“That,” said Jim, “is an observation made from great depths of wisdom.”
“I hope, Mr. Ashe, you have not been making any demand paper.”