“Music!” cried the man; whereupon the cometist began to play the Meditation from “Thaïs” softly, but obviously ready to play fortissimo at a signal from the chief.
“I am going to lick you with a whip; and, for every lash I give you, you will have to pay me one hundred thousand dollars in addition to the original million. Theatrical, is it?” And his voice was hoarse with anger. “Yes? Well, look at this melodramatic whip. Your tragedy will be my comedy, you————jackass!”
He showed to Mr. E. H. Merriwether a quirt—a veritable miniature blacksnake of plaited leather.
“You can stand twenty; that will make three million in all. I'll draw blood after the fifth. I'll stop when you've got enough. Remember the price!”
He snapped the whip viciously and walked round the table until he stood behind Mr. Merriwether. He lifted his arm and then the great Merriwether, autocrat of fifteen thousand miles of railroad, iron-nerved, fearless, imaginative, and intelligent, yelled: “Wait!”
“The million?”
“Yes!”
“Help him!” said the man; and the intelligent-looking footmen respectfully served as valets.
“I don't believe you would kill me—but I never liked spankings.” Mr. Merriwether spoke jocularly—almost!
The man confronted Mr. Merriwether and said, very seriously: