“I won't keep you but a moment, Professor. And what I'm going to tell you is good news, at that. I presume it IS news; or have you heard of the Tinplate melon?”
It was quite evident that Galusha had not heard. Nor, hearing now, did the news convey anything to his mind.
“Melon?” he repeated. “Ah—melon, did you say?”
“Why, yes. The Tinplate people are—”
It was a rather long story, and telling it took longer than the minute Mr. Barbour had requested. To Galusha it was all a tangled and most uninteresting snarl of figures and stock quotations and references to “preferred” and “common” and “new issues” and “rights.” He gathered that, somehow or other, he was to have more money, money which was coming to him because the “Tinplate crowd,” whoever they were, were to do something or other that people like Barbour called “cutting a melon.”
“You understand, Professor?” asked Mr. Barbour, concluding his explanation.
Galusha was at that moment endeavoring to fabricate a story of his own, one which he might tell Miss Phipps. It must not be too discouraging, it must—
“Eh?” he ejaculated, coming out of his daydream. “Oh, yes—yes, of course.”
“As near as I can figure, your share will be well over twelve thousand. A pretty nice little windfall, I should say. Now what shall I do with it?”
“Yes.... Oh, I beg your pardon. Dear me, I am afraid I was not attending as I should.”