“About how much does it mean to you, young man?” asked E. H. Merriwether, with a particularly polite curiosity.
“Speaking in language that should be intelligible to you and using the terms by which you measure' all things down here—” He paused, and then said, bluntly, “You mean in cash, don't you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I should say, Mr. Merriwether, that this story is worth to me—Let me see!” And he began to count on his fingers, like a woman. This habit inexpressibly angers men who find no trouble in remembering numbers of dollars. “I should say, Mr. Merriwether, that it is worth about three thousand two hundred and eighty-six—millions of dollars. If I am to stop being a decent newspaper man to become a blackmailer and general damned fool I'd want to make enough to endow all my pet charities and carry out a series of rather expensive experiments in philanthropy.”
“But—” began the magnate.
“No, sir,” interrupted the reporter, “no money, please. Just assume that I am a damned fool and, therefore, refuse to consider a bribe.”
“I have not bribed you,” suggested E. H. Merriwether, calmly. His eyes never left the reporter's face.
“Then I misjudged you, and I apologize abjectly; but permit me to continue to be an ass and blind to money. What about Thomas Thorne Merriwether, only son and heir of the railroad king of the Southwest?”
“Well, what about him?” The face of E. H. Merriwether showed only what you might call a perfunctory curiosity. The reporter looked at him admiringly. After a pause, he asked:
“Do you know her?”