“Who’s the fool, then?”
“I am.”
With a deliberation and accuracy worthy of a better action, the owner of The Guardian thrust his editorial pen in the glue-pot.
“Oh, you are, are you? And how much do you propose to pay for this valuable property?”
“Well—er—say fifty thousand. And assume the mortgage.”
“Fine! You’ve got the fifty thousand ready, I suppose? In your little leathern wallet?”
“It’s real money,” retorted the other, with a touch of resentment.
“Real, of course. But whose?”
“I’m not instructed to state.”
“Are you instructed to take me for a boob? Do you observe a blithe and vernal touch of green in my eye, Andy? When did Miss Ames put you up to this?”