“It is better you gif me a paper once, vit your name, dot you gif me half dot money.”
Nels Nelson stooped deliberately and went on washing the horse’s legs. A look of irritation swept over the placid face of G. B. Stiles, and he slipped the toothpick back in his vest pocket and walked away.
“I say,” called the Swede after him. “You gif me dot paper. Eh?”
“I can’t stand talking to you here. You’ll promise to swear to all you told me when I was here the first time. If you do that, you are sure of the money, and if you change it in the least, or show the least sign of backing down, we neither of us get it. Understand?”
Again the Swede arose, and stood looking at him sullenly. “It iss ten t’ousand tallers, und I get it half, eh?”
“Oh, you go to thunder!” The proprietor of the hotel came around the corner of the stable, and G. B. Stiles addressed himself to him. “I’d like the use of a horse to-day, 347 and your man here, if I can get him. I’ve got to make a trip to Rigg’s Corners to sell some dry goods. Got a good buggy?”
“Yes, and a horse you can drive yourself, if you like. Be gone all day?”
“No, don’t want to fool with a horse––may want to stay and send the horse back––if I find a place where the grub is better than it is here. See?”
“You’ll be back after one meal at any place within a hundred miles of here.” The proprietor laughed.
“Might as well drive yourself. You won’t want to send the horse back. I’m short of drivers just now. Times are bad and travel light, so I let one go.”