“Why,” stammered Clara, “that’s—that’s—let me see—why, that’s more than twenty-one thousand dollars a year.”
“That’s what,” replied Jim, keenly relishing the sensation he was causing. “And it wasn’t stage money either. He had brought twenty thousand dollars with him in bills, and he laid it down on the table as carelessly as though it was twenty cents. And all that this modest youth, who sits beside me and isn’t saying a word, had to do to get that money was to put his name on a piece of paper.”
“Joe,” exclaimed Clara, “do tell us what all this means! Jim is just trying to tantalize us.”
“Stung!” grinned Jim. “That’s what comes from mixing in family matters.”
“Why, it’s this way, Sis,” laughed Joe. “That fellow traveled a thousand miles to call me a hick. I wouldn’t stand for it and made him take it back and then he got mad and skipped.”
“Momsey,” begged Clara in desperation, “can’t you make these idiots tell us just what happened?”
“Them cruel woids!” ejaculated Jim mournfully.
“Do tell us, Joe!” entreated his mother. “I’m just dying to know all about it.”
Teasing his mother was a very different thing from teasing Clara, who was an adept at that art herself, and Joe surrendered immediately. 35
They forgot to eat—all except Jim, who seldom carried forgetfulness so far—while he told them about Westland’s call and his proposition to Joe to break his contract and jump to the new league.