"You 'll take that price or leave it."
"I'll take it, but—"
"Good," broke in Donaldson sharply. "The operator here is a witness. I 'll send the money to-night, and have a tenant in the house Tuesday. Good night, Deacon."
"If yer—"
The rest of the sentence faded into the jangle of the line, but Donaldson broke in again.
"Say, Deacon, were you really in bed at this time of night?"
"Gol darn—"
"Careful! Careful!"
"Wall, ye need n't think cause ye 're in N' York ye can be so all-fired smart."
A sharp click told him that the deacon had hung up the receiver in something of a temper. Donaldson came out of the booth, hesitated, and then put in another call. He found relaxation in the vaudeville picture he had of the spindle-shanked hypocrite fretting in the cold so many miles distant. He was morally certain that the old fellow had robbed the dying Burnham of half his scant property. If he had had the time he would have started a lawyer upon an investigation. As he did n't, and he saw nothing more entertaining ahead of him until morning, he took satisfaction in pestering him as much as possible in this somewhat childish way.