Major Covington fairly sputtered surprise and chagrin.
“But, Mr. Betts, sir,” he protested, “I happen to know that less than four months ago you paid only about twenty-seven thousand dollars for this entire business!”
“Twenty-six thousand five hundred, to be exact,” corrected Mr. Betts.
“And since that time you have not added a dollar's worth of improvement to it,” added the dismayed major.
“Not one cent—let alone a dollar,” assented this most remarkable man.
“But surely you don't expect us to pay such a price as that?” pleaded tie major.
“I do not,” said Mr. Betts.
“We couldn't think of paying such a price as that.”
“I don't expect you to,” said Mr. Betts. “I didn't ask you to. As I said before, these gasworks are not for sale. They suit me just as they are. They are not on the market; but you insist that I shall name a price and I name it—sixty thousand in cash. Take it or leave it.”
Having concluded this, for him, unusually long speech, Mr. Betts brought his fingertips together with great mathematical exactness, matching each finger and each thumb against its fellow as though they were all parts of a sum in addition that he was doing. With his fingers added up to his satisfaction and the total found correct, he again turned his gaze out of the smudgy window. This time it was something on the extreme top of the gas tank which seemed to engage his attention. Cassius Poindexter opened the street door and started in; but at the sight of so much company he checked himself on the threshold, combed back his side whiskers nervously, bowed dumbly and withdrew, closing the door softly behind him.