"Fifty thousand dollars," says he.
I glances at him puzzled. Was it a case of loose wirin', or was this old jay tryin' to hand me the end of the twine ball? Just then, though, along comes Hermann with a couple of three-inch combination chops and a dish of baked potatoes all broke open and decorated with butter and paprika; and for the next half-hour Mr. Isham's conversation works are clogged for fair. Not that he's one of these human sausage machines; but he has a good hearty Down East appetite and a habit of attendin' strictly to business at mealtime.
But when he's finished off with a section of deep-dish apple pie and a big cup of coffee he sighs satisfied, unhooks the napkin, lights up a perfecto I've ordered for him, and resumes where he left off.
"It's a heap of money ain't it?" says he. "I didn't know at first whether or no I ought to take it. That's one thing I come on for."
"Ye-e-es?" says I, a little sarcastic maybe. "Had to be urged, did you?"
"Wall," says he, "I wa'n't sure the fam'ly could afford it exactly."
"It was a gift, then?" says I.
"Willed to me," says he. "Kind of curious too. Shucks! when I took them folks off the yacht that time I wa'n't thinkin' of anything like this. Course, the young feller did offer me some bills at the time; but he did it like he thought I was expectin' to be paid, and I—well, I couldn't take it that way. So I didn't git a cent. I thought the whole thing had been forgotten too, when that letter from the lawyers comes sayin' how this Mr. Fowler had——"
"Not Roswell K.?" I breaks in.
"Yes, that's the man," says he.