Henry was angry and disillusioned, but he knew that belligerence would gain him nothing. “In other words,” he said, genially, “there’s something the matter with everything but the Orpheum, and everybody but me. I congratulate myself. Well, when I do get the job finished, and what does it cost––not to a minute and a fraction of a cent, of course, but a general idea––what year, and––”
“Mr. Devereux!”
“And a guess that’s within say, a couple of thousand dollars of the real price.”
“I hope you don’t think I’m making any big profit out of this. To tell the truth––”
“Oh, I know,” said Henry. “You’re losing money. Don’t deny it, you eleemosynary rascal, don’t deny it.”
The man felt himself insulted, but Henry was smiling, and of course that strange word might be something technical. “Well, to tell the truth, we––”
“Come on, now. I know you’re an altruist, 114 but be a sport. You’re losing money, and the children are moaning with hunger in their little trundle-beds, but when do I get the job done?”
“The second week in September.”
“This September? And the bill?”
“Shaved down so close there’s hardly any––”