“That’s it exactly.”
“Then you, Applerod, don’t you dare call me Mr. Johnson again!” And he shook a bony fist at his old-time work-fellow.
Biff Bates nearly fell off the desk, but with rare presence of mind restrained his glee.
Mr. Applerod, smiling loftily, immediately wielded his bludgeon.
“We should not quarrel over trifles,” he stated commiseratingly. “We are once more companions in misfortune. There is no Applerod Addition. It is a swamp again.”
“What do you mean?” asked Johnson incredulously, but suspending his indignation for the instant.
“This,” said Applerod: “that the entire addition is a hundred-acre mud puddle this morning. You couldn’t sell a lot in it to a blind man. Every cent that was invested in it is lost. The whole marsh was fed from underground springs that have come up through it and overflowed the place.”
“Trimmer again,” said Biff Bates, and slid off the desk; then he looked at his watch with a curious speculative smile.
“But if it is all lost,” protested Johnson, looking again at the note and pausing in the making out of the check, “how do you come to get this?”
“He owed it to me,” asserted Applerod. “I wanted to sell out when I first found that we were competing with Silas Trimmer, and young Burnit kept me from it by an injunction. He offered me ten thousand dollars for my interest once, but this morning when I went to accept that offer he would only give me this five thousand. It’s just five thousand dollars that he’s robbed me of.”