This they thoroughly believed—but business is business!
“Utterly impossible,” said Mr. Squinch.
The slyly rubbing palms of Mr. Turner, the down-shot lines of Andy Grout’s face, the compressed lips of Tom Fester, all affirmed Mr. Squinch’s decided negative.
“Give me fifteen,” pleaded Wallingford. “Twelve—ten.”
They would not. To each of these proposals they shook emphatic heads.
“Very well,” said Wallingford, and quietly wrote an address on the envelope containing his certificates. He tossed the envelope on the postal scales, sealed it, took stamps from his drawer and pasted them on. “Then, gentlemen, good day.”
“Wait a minute,” hastily protested Mr. Squinch. “Gentlemen, suppose we confer a minute.”
Heads bent together, they conferred.
“We’ll give you eight thousand dollars,” said Squinch as a result of the conference. “We’ll go right down and draw it out of the bank in cash and give it to you.”