“You’re welcome to it,” replied Balcomb, fiercely. “The old man’s crooked, and the idea of his being swindled by me or anybody else is funny, as you’d see if you weren’t trying to be his son-in-law. The old fool is playing the bucket shops—”
“I’m in a hurry. Give me the option and get busy about it.”
One of the typewriters came in with a card.
“Excuse me, Mr. Balcomb, but the gentleman said he couldn’t wait,”—and Balcomb rose from the iron safe before which he was bending and snatched the card.
“Tell him I’m engaged. Tell him I don’t want to see him anyhow,” yelled Balcomb, in a voice that was perfectly audible to the waiting caller in the anteroom.
“Here,” he said to Leighton, in the same tone of fury, “here’s your damned option. Give me back the thousand I paid Dameron and go to hell!”
“Now I want you to give me a check for that money you wrung from Mr. Dameron—”
“I didn’t wring any money from him, you yelping ape. I paid him money. You don’t seem to understand this transaction.”
“I understand it perfectly. You reported to your company that twenty thousand would buy that group of lots; you took that amount of money from them, gave Mr. Dameron eighteen thousand and put the rest in your pocket as commission. It sounds well, doesn’t it?”
“He isn’t making any kick, is he? I bet he isn’t. He was perfectly satisfied. He needed money and was glad to sell at any price. I did him a great service.” And Balcomb thrust his thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat with the air of a man who is ready and anxious to face the world on any charge.