“Well?” Regan invited.
Spitzer began to talk, rapidly, hurriedly—that is, his lips moved rapidly, hurriedly.
Regan listened attentively and with a strained and hopeless expression, as he strove to catch a word and hence the drift of Spitzer’s remarks.
“How?” he demanded, when he saw Spitzer was at an end. “Speak out, man. You won’t wake the baby up.”
Spitzer began all over again. This time he did a little better.
“A dollar twenty-five,” repeated the master mechanic numbly.
Spitzer brightened visibly, and nodded.
Regan stared, bewildered and dumfounded. Gradually, impossible, incomprehensible, incongruous as it appeared, it dawned on him that Spitzer, even Spitzer, Spitzer was asking for a raise!
“A dollar twenty-five.” was all Regan could repeat over again, and the words came away with a gasp.
Spitzer, misinterpreting the tone, his face grew rueful and full of trouble. He was appalled at his own temerity in broaching the subject in the first place, but now he had overstepped the bounds—he had asked for too much!