“No. It is useless to argue, Mr. Colton, and useless to ask my reasons. I have them, and that is enough. Will you accept MY offer?”
He hesitated. The sneer had left his face and his tone when he addressed me was respectful, though there was a curious note of chagrin or dissatisfaction in it. I had expected him to be eager and, perhaps, mockingly triumphant. He was not. He seemed reluctant, almost disappointed.
“I suppose I'll have to,” he said. “But, Paine, what is up? Why are you doing this? You're not afraid of me? No, of course you're not. You're not the kind to squeal and lie down because you think the odds are against you . . . Confound you!” with a sudden burst of impatience, “you are enough to upset all the self-conceit a man's got in him. Just as I think I'm beginning to size you up you break loose in a new place.”
“Pardon me,” I put in, “but I don't see that you are helping to save that valuable time of yours. I understand that you accept. Will you pay me now?”
He rose, threw away his cigar, and, with his hands in his pockets, stood regarding me.
“Your mind is made up, is it?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Humph! Have you thought of what our mutual friend Dean and the rest of the patriots may say when they find this out?”
I had thought of little else all the way from the bank to his door. I was thinking of it then.
“Of course,” he added, “that is not my affair, but—”