I must say too that Mr. Steele puts up a mighty convincin' line of talk, tryin' to show 'em how much better it would be to have a couple of hundred or so comin' in fresh on the first of every month, than to be handed a lump sum and maybe lose some of it, or run shy before next payday. He explains how he was tryin' to plan so the money might do 'em the most good, and unless it did how he couldn't feel that he'd done his part right.
"All of which," he goes on, "I am quite sure, Mrs. Wells, you will appreciate."
"Go on, you whiskered old stuff!" comes back Mabel spiteful. "How do you know so much what's good for us? You and your nutty dreams about cows and flower gardens and hens! I'd rather go back to Second avenue and frisk another quick-lunch job. Hand us a wad: that's all we want."
Course it was a batty piece of work, tryin' to persuade people to let you push money on 'em; but that's just where we stood. And in the end J. Bayard wipes his brow weary and turns to me.
"Well, McCabe, what do you say?" he asks. "Shall we?"
"I leave it with you," says I. "You're the one that's developed this what-do-you-call-it instinct, temperin' kindly zeal with practical wisdom, ain't you? Then go to it!"
So five minutes later Hackett Wells shuffles out with an order good for the whole twenty-five hundred in his pocket, and Mabel clingin' tight to his arm.
"What's the idea," says Mabel, "Wishin' this Rube stuff on us?"