“Good morning, Mrs. Perkins,” he said, with great effusiveness; “I have called to give Paul one last chance to sell me the rights in that machine of his.”
“He won’t do it, I’m sure, sir. There is no use your bothering,” said Mrs. Perkins. “He—oh, here he comes now,” as Paul came round the corner of the house; “Paul, here’s Mr. Hunt.”
“Oh,” said Paul, with no very noticeable cordiality in his tones.
“Yes, I’ve come to see if you are prepared to sell the machine to me now,” said Hunt, with an odd ring in his voice.
“I cannot, as I told you before,” said Paul, firmly. “I have my reasons, and——”
“I have mine,” snapped Hunt, a savage light appearing in his eyes. He whipped a hand into his breast pocket and produced a handful of papers.
“Mrs. Perkins,” he demanded, “are you prepared to pay me the interest on this mortgage? It amounts to $1,500.”
“Why—why,” stammered Mrs. Perkins, “you have no mortgage on this house. It’s Landis, the real estate man. He——”
“I bought the mortgage from him, madam,” was the rejoinder, “and I am now here to claim my property unless the interest is paid up at once. Of course, I am willing to take the sole rights to that machine in lieu of the interest. I think I’m giving you a good chance; are you willing to take it?”
“I suppose I must,” hesitated Mrs. Perkins; “oh, dear, this is dreadful. Paul, my boy, will you——”