Lablache shrugged his shoulders with apparent indifference—he meant to have them.
"What do you want for the debts? I am prepared to buy—at a reasonable figure."
The Mexican propped himself comfortably upon the corner of the desk.
"Say, guess we're talkin' biz, now. His 'lordship' is due to ante up the trifle of seven thousand dollars—"
The fellow was rummaging in an inside pocket for the slips of paper. His eyes never left his companion's face. The amount startled Lablache, but he did not move a muscle.
"You did your work well, Pedro," he said, allowing himself, for the first time in this conversation, to recognize that the Mexican had a name. He warmed towards a man who was capable of doing another down for such a sum in such a short space of time. "I'll treat you well. Two thousand spot cash, and you hand over the I.O.U.'s. What say? Is it a go?"
"Be damned to you. Two thousand for a certain seven? Not me. Say, what d'ye do with the skin when you eat a bananny? Sole your boots with it? Gee-whiz! You do fling your bills around."
The Mexican laughed derisively as he jammed the papers back into his pocket. But he knew that he would have to sell at the other's price.
Lablache moved heavily towards his desk. Selecting a book he opened it at a certain page.
"You can keep them if you like. But you may as well understand your position. What's Bunning-Ford worth? What's his ranch worth?"