“Here!” Raish's smile and his urbanity had vanished. “Here,” he demanded, “what are you talkin' about? Who the devil said anything about my givin' eighteen dollars a share?”
“Why, I understood you to say that the—ah—shares were cheap at that figure, that it was a very low price for them. You did say that, didn't you?”
Mr. Pulcifer seemed to find articulation difficult. He blew and sputtered like a stranded porpoise and his face became redder than ever, but he did not answer the question.
“I understood—” began Galusha, again, but a roar interrupted him.
“Aw, you understand too darn much,” shouted Raish. “You go back and tell Martha Phipps I say I don't know what them shares of hers are worth and I don't care. You tell her I don't want to buy 'em and I don't know anybody that does. Yes, and you tell her that if I did know anybody that was fool enough to bid one dollar of real money for 'em I'd sell him mine and be darn glad of the chance. And say, you tell her not to bother me no more. She took her chance same as the rest of us, and if she don't like it she can go—Eh? What is it?”
His caller had risen, rather suddenly for him, and was standing beside the desk. There was a peculiar expression on his thin face.
“What's the matter?” demanded Mr. Pulcifer. Galusha's gaze was very direct.
“I wouldn't say that,” he said, quietly.
“Eh? Say what? I was just goin' to say that if Martha Phipps didn't like waitin' same as the rest of us she—”
“Yes, yes,” hastily, “I know. But I shouldn't say it, if I were you.”