"How long are you going to stay here?" he asked abruptly.
"Tuesday morning."
"You and the Missus had better come out and try that cook of mine before you go."
Jackson affected indifference, but his heart was beating high, higher than it had beaten for years, for he was a man that had always had his own way, and was not given to argument or diplomatic finessing. Having shot his bolt, Jackson waited.
Skinner turned in his chair. "That's mighty good of you, old chap," he said cordially. "You're just like these other hospitable Westerners. You've bragged about your cook and you want to show me that you can make good. But I'll let you off—I'll take your word for it this time."
"I don't want you to take my word for it," Jackson retorted. "Besides, I'd like to have your wife meet my wife!"
"So would I," said Skinner. He paused a moment.
Right here was the bit of humble pie that Jackson had prepared to eat, if necessary, but taken from the hand of a cordial fellow like Skinner, it would n't be so hard, after all.
"Skinner, you 're a good fellow—so am I a good fellow. I like you. There's no reason why we should n't be friends—personally—you understand."
"Mr. Jackson," said Skinner, "you're a frank man. I'm going to be frank with you. I don't feel that it would be loyal to my firm if I should accept your hospitality, under the circumstances. It's all well enough to be impersonal, separate business life from social life but"—and here he began to butter the humble pie that he had felt it to be inevitable that Jackson should eat—"you stood mighty well with our house. You've got a great reputation. It was most important to us. We did everything we could to please you. After the break came, we went the limit in the way of eating humble pie to get you back again. But you set your face against us hard. I might even waive that, but just you look at it yourself." Skinner laughed. "You know you did n't treat McLaughlin very well—and the curious part was, McLaughlin was always very fond of you personally."