"Do you mean," says he, "that Mr. Gordon intended to leave me something in his will; that he—er—considered I was entitled to some—ah——"
"That's the idea, more or less," says I. "Only Mr. Steele here, he's been tryin' to dope out what would suit you best."
"Could—could it be in the form of a—a cash sum?" asks Gerald.
I sighs relieved and looks inquirin' at Steele. He nods, and I nods back.
"Sure thing," says I.
"How much?" demands Webb.
"Time out," says I, "until Mr. Steele and I can get together."
So while Gerald is pacin' nervous up and down between the tables we makes figures on the back of the menu. We begins by guessin' what he was gettin' when he was fired, then what salary he might have been pullin' down in five years, at the end of ten, and so on, deductin' some for black times and makin' allowances for hard luck. But inside of five minutes we'd agreed on a lump sum.
"What about twenty thousand?" says I.
Gerald gulps once or twice, turns a little pale, and then asks choky, "Would—would you put that in writing?"