“Though why the devil you’ve wasted all this time, God alone knows,” finished Peter. He completed the collection of papers, rose to go.
For once in the history of Beresford & Beresford, the junior partner saved the situation. Maurice, not realizing Peter’s temper unassumed, thinking it a bluff, sat silent; leaving Charlie’s frightened acquisitiveness to exclaim:
“I don’t see why we shouldn’t pay something for goodwill. Only, it’s a question of how much. Couldn’t we compromise, Peter?”
Our Mr. Jameson sat down again. The outburst had steadied his nerves; his commercial judgment revived. Inwardly, he laughed a little: it seemed quaint that his loss of temper should have brought the Beresfords to heel so quickly. But what he actually said was:
“Compromise? Why the whole amount’s only chicken food.”
“Damn dear chicken-food,” commented Maurice. “You’re asking a year’s profits. That’s about two thousand five hundred pounds.” He changed his tone. “Look here, Peter, your time’s valuable, so’s mine. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. The indemnity under that lease of yours might run into a lot of money. Supposing we waive it, and give you a thousand in cash for the goodwill.”
Pouted Guthrie, recovering his dignity: “That seems to me a very liberal offer.” . . .
And at twelve hundred, Peter compromised. It was a weak thing to do, and he knew it weak as he did it; but time pressed, and somehow he felt sick of haggling. The old Peter, the Peter who would have fought up to the last ten-pound note, had left his patience at Ypres!
But it was the old Peter who insisted on the immediate exchange of letters; who dictated the rough agreement to Guthrie’s pert blond typist; appended steady signature at foot.
“And about the contract itself?” asked Maurice Beresford as the party, all smiles and handshakes, broke up. “You’ll have that sent out to you, I suppose?”