“That isn’t the only scare I owe to you,” muttered Mr. Blodgett. “I didn’t take your address because I told you to come again. Why didn’t you?”
“I am here.”
“Yes. But for three weeks I’ve been worrying over what you were doing with yourself, and not knowing that you hadn’t cut your throat.”
“I am sorry to have troubled you. I stayed away to save troubling you.”
“You’re as considerate as the Fiji islander was of the missionary, when he asked him if he had rather be cooked à la maître d’hôtel or en papillote. What have you been doing?”
“Very little to any purpose. I have written to my publisher, offering to sell my rights in my text-books; to a friend, asking him to learn for what price he can sell my library; and to my bankers, directing them to send me the bonds and a draft for my balance. I received the securities and a bill of exchange yesterday, and am so ignorant of business methods that I came to you this morning to learn how to turn them into cash.”
“I’ll do better than that,” volunteered Mr. Blodgett, touching a button. “Give them to me, and I’ll have it done.” Then, after he had turned the matter over to a clerk, he asked, “What does your publisher offer?”
“Thirty-five hundred.”
“And what are your royalties?”
“Last year they were over six hundred dollars.”