As they whirred away Bobby’s eyes happened to rest upon a young man and a young woman rowing idly down-stream in a skiff, and he smiled as he recognized Biff Bates and Nellie Platt.
On the day Bobby got the money for his Westmarsh property old Applerod came up from the office of the Brightlight Electric Company, where he held a lazy, sleepy afternoon job as “manager,” and with an ingratiating smile handed Bobby a check for five thousand dollars.
“What’s this for?” asked Bobby, puzzled.
“I have decided to give you back the money and take up again my approximate one-fifth share in the Applerod Addition,” announced that gentleman complacently.
Bobby was entirely too much surprised at this to be amused.
“You’re just a trifle too late, Mr. Applerod,” said he. “Had you come to me two weeks ago, when I thought the land was worthless, out of common decency I would not have let you buy in again. Since then, however, I have sold the tract at a profit of forty thousand dollars.”
“You have?” exclaimed Applerod. “I heard you were going to do something of the kind. I’m entitled to one-fifth of that profit, Mr. Burnit—eight thousand dollars.”
“You’re entitled to a good, swift poke in the neck!” exclaimed the voice of wizened old Johnson, who stood in the doorway, and who, since his friendship with Biff Bates, had absorbed some of that gentleman’s vigorous vernacular. “Applerod, I’ll give you just one minute to get out of this office. If you don’t I’ll throw you downstairs!”
“Mr. Johnson,” said Applerod with great dignity, “this office does not belong to you. I have as much right here—”
Mr. Johnson, taking a trot around Bobby’s desk so as to get Mr. Applerod between him and the door, made a threatening demonstration toward the rear, and Applerod, suddenly deserting his dignity, rushed out. Bobby straightened his face as Johnson, still blazing, came in from watching Applerod’s ignominious retreat.