Galusha's expression had changed, certainly. He looked queerly at Mr. Pulcifer, queerly and for an appreciable interval of time. There was an odd flash in his eye and the suspicion of a smile at the corner of his lips. But he was grave enough when he spoke.
“Mr. Pulcifer,” he said, “I appreciate your kindness in—ah—considering me in this matter. I—it is impossible for me to accept your offer, of course, but—but—”
“Now, hold on, Perfessor. You think that offer over.”
“No, I cannot accept. But it has occurred to me that perhaps... perhaps... Mr. Pulcifer, do you know Miss Hoag?”
“Hey? Marietta Hoag? KNOW her? Yes, I know her; know her too well for my own good. Why?”
“Have you any—ah—influence with her? That is, would she be likely to listen to a suggestion from you?”
“Listen! SHE? Confound her, I've got a note of hers for seventy-five dollars and it's two months overdue. She'd BETTER listen! Say, what are you drivin' at, Perfessor?”
Galusha deposited his hat upon the floor again, and sat down in the chair he had just vacated. Now it was he who, regardless of the cigar, leaned forward.
“Mr. Pulcifer,” he said, “an idea occurred to me while you were speaking just now. I don't know that it will be of any—ah—value to you. But you are quite welcome to it, really. This is the idea—”