Now, two hours later, as he stood in the doorway of the club, he was debating what he should do in a certain matter. That matter concerned Major Hardee and was, therefore, an extremely delicate one. At length Mr. Gott climbed the narrow stairs and entered the clubroom. It was blue with tobacco smoke.
The six or eight members present hailed him absently and went on with their games of checkers or “seven-up.” He attempted a game of checkers and lost, which did not tend to make his temper any sweeter. His ill nature was so apparent that Beriah Higgins, who suffered from dyspepsia and consequent ill temper, finally commented upon it.
“What's the matter with you, Obed?” he asked tartly. “Too much of P'lena's mince pie?”
“No,” grunted Mr. Gott shortly.
“What is it, then? Ain't paint sellin' well?”
“Sellin' well 'nough. I could sell a hundred ton of paint to-morrow, more'n likely, but when it come to gittin' the money for it, that would be another story. If folks would pay their bills there wouldn't be no trouble.”
“Who's stuck you now?”
“I don't s'pose anybody has, but it's just as bad when they don't pay up. I've got to have money to keep a-goin' with. It don't make no diff'rence if it's as good a customer as Major Hardee; he ought to remember that we ain't all rich like him and—”
A general movement among all the club members interrupted him. The checker players left their boards and came over; the “seven-up” devotees dropped their cards and joined the circle.
“What was that you said?” asked Higgins, uneasily. “The Major owin' you money, was it?”