“Oh, dear me, no!”
“What DO you live on?”
“Why, my salary.”
“How much is your salary, if you don't mind telling us?”
Galusha did not in the least mind. The figure he named seemed a small one to his banking relative, used to big sums.
“Humph!” grunted the latter; “well, that isn't so tremendous. They don't overpay you mummy-dusters, do they? And you really don't want me to send you any more?”
“No, not if you're sure you don't mind.”
“Oh, I don't mind. Then you want me to keep it and reinvest it for you; is that it?”
“I—I think so. Yes, reinvest it or—ah—something.”
“But you may need some of it occasionally. If you do you will notify me, of course.”