"Twenty-seven thousand eight hundred."
Bojo restrained a start of amazement.
"Say twenty-eight flat," he said carefully. "Does that include Louise Varney's account?"
"Yes, everything," said DeLancy slowly. He stood at the desk, staring, while Bojo wrote a check, watching the traveling pen as though still incredulous.
"There you are, old rooster, and good luck," said Bojo.
"Here, I say, you've made it out for thirty-eight thousand, said DeLancy, taking the check.
"Ten thousand is profits, sure."
"Here, I say, that's not right. I couldn't take that—no, never, Bojo!"
"Shut up and be off with you!" said Bojo. "You don't think for a moment I'd use my friends and not see they got a share of the winnings, do you?"
"It doesn't seem right," said DeLancy again. He gazed at the check, a prey to conflicting desires.