“Someone,” muttered Mart, “has done something. But what? Books—money—dirt cheap! The plot thickens. Have patience, Martin, have patience! All will be revealed to you in good time.”
“Oh!” Hicks swallowed once as though it hurt him and got up from his chair. “Well—” He observed Ira in a puzzled way. “I—I’m greatly obliged to you—er—What is your name, please?”
“Rowland,” answered Ira gravely. “I hope you won’t think it was cheeky of me, Hicks.”
“Old Earnest” shook his head slowly. “No, no, I—I don’t. I’m so—so glad to have them, you see, Rowland! It was—very good of you. Of course I’ll pay you for them. But I—you’ll have to give me time. I’m much obliged. Good evening.”
“Old Earnest” fairly bolted to the door and an instant later it crashed shut with a shock that made the walls shake. Ira stole a glance at Mart. That youth, his legs stretched far across the old brown carpet, his head back, was whistling softly and tunelessly. Silence reigned for a long minute. Then:
“Oh, don’t be an ass!” exclaimed Ira.
“I beg your pardon?” Mart turned and regarded him in polite surprise. “You spoke, I believe.”
“You heard what I said,” laughed Ira. “Why shouldn’t I buy his old books for him? He’s dead-broke and——”
“Ira, my lad,” said Mart sternly, “what have you been and gone and done?”
“What do you mean?”