"Yes."
"All over. And now we've got to beat the spears into plowshares, eh?"
"We have."
Mr. Shayne chuckled. "Some of my spears were already made into plows, and it was a great season for the harvest, young man—a great season."
Hugo was still uncertain of Mr. Shayne's deepest viewpoint. His uncertainty nettled him. "The grim reaper has done some harvesting on his own account—" He spoke almost rudely.
Mr. Shayne frowned disapprovingly. "I made up my mind to forget, Danner. To forget and to buckle down. And I've done both. You'll want to know what happened to the funds I handled for you—"
"I wasn't particularly—"
The older man shook his head with grotesque coyness. "Not so fast, not so fast. You were particularly eager to hear. We're getting honest about our emotions in this day and place. You're eaten with impatience. Well—I won't hold out. Danner, I've made you a million. A clean, cold million."
Hugo had been struggling in a rising tide of incomprehension; that statement engulfed him. "Me? A million?"
"In the bank in your name waiting for a blonde girl."