"Think of the risk! If anythings happen, I'm ruined!"
"Well, curse you, what will you do it for? Out with it!"
"I can't do it, Mr. Bofinker, I can't do it!"
"Three thousand five hundred dollars then."
"Imbossible!"
"Well, make your own terms—I'll sign anything."
Sammamon took his chin in his hands, and, after much shrugging of his shoulders and pursing of his lips, finally said, with a gesture that seemed to apologize to his ancestors for his moderation:
"Five thousand dollars at sixty days—not one cent less. And then I don't know where I gets the money."
"Make out the papers," Bofinger said curtly—and did not curse him until the money was safe in hand.