“You say that again and I’ll bite you,” interrupted Wix pleasantly.
“I’ve got a pretty good left-handed punch of my own,” flared Daw, advancing a threatening step.
Wix, though much the larger man, betrayed his touch of physical cowardice by a fleeting shade of pallor, and moved over next the door. The Grand Hotel had not installed a room telephone service, still relying upon the convenient push-button. To this, Wix, affecting to treat the entire incident as a joke, called attention.
“One ring, ice water,” he read from the printed card above it; “two rings, bell boy; three rings, maid. I think about six rings will bring the clerk, the porter and the fire department,” he observed; “but I don’t see where we need them in a quiet little business talk like ours.”
“Oh, I see!” said Daw in the sudden flood of a great white light, and he smiled most amiably. “I promised you a rake-off when I spoke about this on the train, didn’t I? And, of course, I’m willing to stick with it. If I pull this across there’s a thousand in it for you.”
“No. It won’t do,” said Wix, shaking his head.
“Say fifteen hundred, then.”
Once more Wix shook his head. He, also, smiled most amiably.
“I guess you want it all?” charged Daw with a sneer.