“Gad,” I said to myself, “big wages! Will he stand for it?”
Well, he did stand for it. He was a royal old sport; I will say that for him.
Bartoldi said the price was five thousand dollars, and the old boy never turned an eyelash. He made a careless gesture. I don’t think he even O.K.’d the thing with a word.
He took a flat leather case out of his pocket, got out a draft, asked Bartoldi for a pen, or rather indicated the wish for a pen with a fiddling of his fingers, and when he got it, indorsed the draft. Then he showed Bartoldi a letter that was in the envelope that had contained the draft.
I followed them to the door. There was a taxicab waiting; they got in and went up the Avenue.
That type of man ought to have a house somewhere on the Avenue; it was August; the house would be closed; I began to put things together.
I was standing there when Walker came up. I hailed him.
“Walker,” I said, “you got here a moment too late. You see that taxicab?”
He made a little whimsical gesture.
“I see everything,” he said, “that the devil puts out to annoy me; what’s in the taxicab?”