Mr. Browne sank into it with a pretence at gasping. “You can’t mean that, baboo. Nothing like that. Eight rupees! You’re dreaming, baboo. You forget that you only paid two for it. You’re dreaming, baboo—or you’re joking!”
Hurry Doss Mitterjee smiled in deep appreciation of the gentleman’s humour. He even chuckled, with a note of deprecation.
“Ah, no, sir! You will pardon me for saying that is a mistake, sir! In bissiness I doo not joke, never! For those chairs I pay seven rupees four annas, sir! It iss a small profit but it iss contentable. I doo not ask more, sir!”
“This is very sad, baboo!” said Mr. Browne seriously. “This is very sad, indeed! I understood that you were a person of probity, who never asked more than a hundred per cent. But I know the value of shisham chairs, and this is four hundred—Oh, very sad, indeed! Now see here, I’ll give you three rupees apiece for these chairs, and take six.”
“Salaam!” said the baboo, touching his forehead with ironical gratitude and pushing back the chair. “Nossir!”
“You may take them at coss price, sir—at seven four you may take them, and I make no profit: but perhaps I get your custom. Take them—seven four!”
Mr. Browne turned away with a slight sigh. “Come along, dear,” he said to his wife, “this man sells only to Rajahs and Members of Council.”
The baboo ignored the pleasantry this time—the moment had come for action. “What do you give, sir?” he said, following them—“for the sake off bissiness, what do you give?”
“Four rupees!”
“Five eight!”