Galusha did not answer. Cabot immediately demanded to know if he was still there. Assured of this, he repeated his question.
“I—I wanted it,” faltered Galusha.
“You WANTED it! Wanted thirteen thousand two hundred dollars in cash down there on the clam flats? What did you want it FOR?”
“I—I—Well, you see—you see—”
“No, I don't see. Now, look here, old man: I realize you're of age and that your money is your own, and all that. It isn't, legally speaking, one single bit my business if you take every cent you've got and sink it in the middle of Cape Cod Bay. But I promised your aunt before she died that I would try and see that you didn't do that kind of thing. She knew you couldn't take care of money; I knew it; why, confound it, you knew it, too! You and I talked that whole matter over and we agreed I wasn't to give you any large sums of your money, no matter how hard you begged for them, unless you told me why you wanted them and I was satisfied it was all right. Didn't we agree to that? Isn't that so?”
“Why—why, yes, Cousin Gussie. You have been very kind. I appreciate it, I assure you.”
“Oh, be hanged! I haven't been kind. I've only been trying to keep you from being TOO kind to people who work you for a good thing, that's all. Look here, Loosh: I know what you've done with that thirteen thousand dollars.”
Galusha shot one more pitiful glance in the direction of the kitchen.
“Ah—ah—do you?” he stammered.
“Yes. You've given it away, haven't you?”