Northrup found Rivers in his shack. He looked as if he had been sitting where Northrup left him the night before. He was unkempt and haggard and there were broken bits of food on the untidy table, and stains of coffee.
“I’m going away, Rivers,” Northrup explained, sitting opposite Larry. “I couldn’t wait to get word from you––my mother is ill. I must put this business through in a sloppy way. It may need a lot of legal patching after, but I’ll take my chances. Heathcote has straightened out your wife’s part––the Point is yours. I’ve made sure of that. 206 Now I’m going to write out something that I think will hold––anyway, I want your signature to it and to a receipt for money I will give you. What we both know will after all be the real deed, for if you don’t keep your bargain, I’ll come back.”
Larry stared dully, insolently at Northrup but did not speak. He watched Northrup writing at the table where the food lay scattered. Then, when the clumsy document was finished, Northrup pushed it toward Rivers.
“Sign there!” he said.
“I’ll sign where I damn please.” Larry showed his teeth. “How much you going to give me for my woman?”
For a moment the sordid room seemed to be swirling in a flood of red and yellow. Northrup got on his feet.
“I don’t want to kill you,” he muttered, “but you deserve it.”
“Ah, have it your own way,” Larry cringed. The memory of the night before steadied him. He’d been drinking heavily and was stronger––and weaker, in consequence.
“How much is––is the price for the Point?” he mumbled.
Northrup mastered his rage and sat down. Feeling sure that Rivers would dicker he said quietly: