Annan, sitting cross-legged on the grass, clasped his knees with both arms. He said, coolly:
“I offered you ten dollars for your story. That was too little to offer for such a story. It’s worth more.”
“Why, it isn’t worth anything,” she retorted. “I hadn’t any story to tell you. I shan’t let you give me money just because I’ve talked to you.”
“Can you guess how much I shall be paid by my newspaper for writing out this story you have told me?” he asked, smiling at her in the starlight.
She shook her head.
“Well, I won’t bother you with details; but your commission in this transaction will be considerable. Your commission will amount to a hundred dollars.”
She sat so rigid and unstirring that he leaned a little toward her to see her expression. It was flushed and hostile.
“Do you think I am joking?” he asked.
“I don’t know what you are doing.”
He said: “I’m not mean enough to make a joke of your predicament. I’m telling you very honestly that I can construct a first-rate short story out of the story you have just told me. I’m workman enough to do it. That’s my job.