“Forty dollars”—Calhoun's hand went tentatively toward his pocket.
“Forty dollars!” There was derision in Kirschell's voice, an uninviting smile on Kirschell's lips. “That's hardly more than the interest!”
“Yes,” said Calhoun, snarling suddenly, “at the thieving rates you, and the bloodsuckers like you, charge.”
Kirschell's uninviting smile deepened.
“Considering the security, the rate is very moderate,” he said evenly. “Now, see here, Calhoun, I told you plainly enough this thing had to be settled to-day. You don't want to run away with the impression that I'm a second Marakof, to be staved off all the time. I bought your note from the pawnbroker's estate because the executors didn't like the look of it, and weren't any too sure they could collect it. Well, I can! I'm new out here, but I'm not new at my business. Excuses with me don't take the place of cash. I hold your note for five hundred dollars, which is past due, to say nothing of six months' interest besides—and you come here to-night and offer me forty dollars!”
“I would have paid Marakof,” said Calhoun, in a low voice; “and I'll pay you as fast as I can. You know what I'm up against—I told you when you first got after me, as soon as you got that note. My brother got into trouble back East. What would you have done? That five hundred kept him out of the 'pen.' He's only a kid. Damn it, don't play the shark! Marakof renewed the note—why can't you?”
“Because I don't do business that way,” said Kir-schell curtly.
Calhoun's voice grew hard.
“How much did you pay for that note, anyway?”
Kirschell shrugged his shoulders.