“I should like to insure your life.”
“You want to insure my life—what's dat?”
“If you will tell me your age, I will explain to you.”
“I was forty-nine next Christmas. You ain't the census man, eh?”
“No; that is quite another matter. Now, Mr. Fishbach,” continued Walter, referring to a pamphlet in his hand, “if you will pay to the company which I represent forty-four dollars every year, when you die a thousand dollars will be paid to your wife, or any one else you may name.”
“You won't pay me till I am dead, eh?”
“No.”
“How will I know you pay then?”
“We do business on the square. We keep our promises.”
“You pay the money to my widow, eh?”