“A—a better man!” muttered Plank, scarce crediting his ears.
“Certainly. A man who can make good, is good; but a man who can make better is it with the ladies—God bless 'em!” he added, displaying a heavy set of teeth.
Beverly Plank knew perfectly well that, in the comparison so delicately suggested by Mortimer, his material equipment could be scarcely compared to the immense fortune controlled by Howard Quarrier; and as he thought it, his reflections were put into words by Mortimer, airily enough:
“Nobody stands a chance in a show-down with Quarrier. But—”
Plank gaped until the tension became unbearable.
“But—what?” he blurted out.
“Plank,” said Mortimer solemnly, and his voice vibrated with feeling, “Let me do a little thinking before I ask you a—a vital question.”
But Plank had become agitated again, and he said something so bluntly that Mortimer wheeled on him, glowering:
“Look here, Plank: you don't suppose I'm capable of repeating a confidence, do you?—if you choose to make me understand it's a confidence.”
“It isn't a confidence; it isn't anything; I mean it is confidential, of course. All there's in it is what I said—or rather what you took me up on so fast,” ended Plank, abashed.