Galusha gazed at him uncomprehendingly.
“Why—ah—Dear me!” he faltered. “I—that is—well, really, I fear I do not fully grasp your—ah—meaning, Mr. Pulcifer.”
Raish seemed to find this amusing. He laughed aloud. “No reason why you should yet awhile, Perfessor,” he declared. “I'll try to get it across to you in a minute, though. What I asked was if you wanted to make money. Do, don't you?”
“Why—why, I don't know. Really, I—”
“Go 'way, boy!” derisively. “Go 'way! Don't tell me you don't want money. Everybody wants it. You and me ain't John D.'s yet, by a consider'ble sight. Hey? Haw, haw! Anyhow I ain't, and I'll say this for you, Perfessor, if you are, you don't look it. Haw, haw!”
He laughed again. Galusha glanced despairingly at the locked door. Mr. Pulcifer leaned forward and gesticulated with the cigar just before his visitor's nose. The visitor leaned backward.
“If—if you don't mind,” he said, desperately, “I really wish you wouldn't.”
“What?”
“Put that thing—that cigar quite so near. If you don't mind.”
Raish withdrew the cigar and looked at it and his companion.