“Yes, yes,” assented Mr Goble gently. “But, all joking aside, suppose I was to go up to twenty-five thousand … ?” He twined his fingers lovingly in the slack of Mr Pilkington’s coat. “Come now! You’re a good kid! Shall we say twenty-five thousand?”
“We will not say twenty-five thousand! Let me go!”
“Now, now, now!” pleaded Mr Goble. “Be sensible! don’t get all worked up! Say, do have a good cigar!”
“I won’t have a good cigar!” shouted Mr Pilkington.
He detached himself with a jerk, and stalked with long strides up the stage. Mr Goble watched him go with a lowering gaze. A heavy sense of the unkindness of fate was oppressing Mr Goble. If you couldn’t gyp a bone-headed amateur out of a piece of property, whom could you gyp? Mr Goble sighed. It hardly seemed to him worth while going on.
§ 4.
Out in the street Wally had overtaken Jill, and they faced one another in the light of a street lamp. Forty-first Street at midnight is a quiet oasis. They had it to themselves.
Jill was pale, and she was breathing quickly, but she forced a smile.
“Well, Wally,” she said. “My career as a manager didn’t last long, did it?”
“What are you going to do?”