“DROVE over!” exclaimed Obed, halting in his tracks. “He did? Where'd he get the team? I'll bet five dollars you was soft enough to let him have it, and never said a word. Well, if you ain't—By jimmy! you wait till I get at him! I'll show you that he can't soft soap me.”
Augustus met them at the door and ushered them into the old-fashioned parlor. The Major, calm, cool, and imperturbably polite, was waiting to receive them. He made some observation concerning the weather.
“The day's fine enough,” interrupted Obed, pushing to the front, “but that ain't what we come here to talk about. Are you goin' to pay us what you owe? That's what we want to know.”
The “gentleman of the old school” did not answer immediately. Instead he turned to the solemn servant at his elbow.
“Augustus,” he said, “you may make ready.” Then, looking serenely at the irate Mr. Gott, whose clenched fist rested under the center table, which he had thumped to emphasize his demands, the Major asked:
“I beg your pardon, my dear sir, but what is the total of my indebtedness to you?”
“Nineteen dollars and twenty-eight cents, and I want you to understand that—”
Major Hardee held up a slim, white hand.
“One moment, if you please,” he said. “Now, Augustus.”
Augustus opened the desk in the corner and produced an imposing stack of bank notes. Then he brought forth neat piles of halves, quarters, dimes, and pennies, and arranged the whole upon the table. Obed's mouth and those of his companions gaped in amazement.