"Prospecting. Prospecting to find out just how much that hundred thousand or two or three you've sunk in me is worth. And I've found out. It's present value is not quite nine a week."
"You mean?"
"I mean," he said pleasantly, "I've been at work."
"At work!"
Mrs. De Peyster slowly rose and looked down at him with staring, loose-fallen face.
"At work!" she gasped again. "At work!"
"Yes, mother. At work."
"But—but that skidding automobile? Those hands?"
"Blisters, mother dear. Most horrible blisters."