“Thanks, no!” returned Phil brusquely.
Brenchfield reached over, opened a cheque book, took up a pen, dipped it in an inkwell, turned his cigar savagely to a corner of his mouth and looked up at his visitor inquiringly.
“How much do you want?”
Phil smiled on him, half-pityingly. Physically, he was tremendously weak, but he despised the man before him so much that it gave him courage and strength.
“How much have you?” he asked.
“None of your damned business!”
“Oh!––I guess you’ve forgotten that our five years’ partnership is up:––a pool and a fair divide, wasn’t it? Share and share alike! Well,––there’s mine!”
He threw a few bills and a little silver on the table.
Brenchfield pushed back his chair.
“So that’s your game, you poor miserable––you know the name!”