The shrewd sunken eyes scanned the paper until the lawyers appeared.
“Gentlemen, do you seriously demand a matter of sixty thousand pounds for six thousand acres of cut-over land?”
“There may be minerals in it.”
“Quite so, but there are a dozen mines in the tract already. Give me the document and hand me a pen.”
There was appreciable silence while that famous Fortinbras was firmly set down.
“If now you gentlemen will be good enough to witness it and seal it, I will hand it to the younger Mr. Mahan, and you can take the duplicate up to town. I’m sorry not to join you at luncheon, but Sir Clifford refuses to let me climb stairs, and allows me only—how much today?”
“Fortinbras, you have behaved so well that in a few minutes I shall let you have three ounces of clear soup, three of sole, seven of underdone roast, and a taste of salad.”
“What, no wine!”
“You’ve been having wine for half an hour—in the form of conversation with youth. But as for the physical stuff, you’ve had no liquid with your luncheon for the past three months.”
“Clifford, has a sea-dog got to live forever?”