"Well, you ought to be satisfied then," says I. "Why not let it go at that?"
But not him. No, he'd got to thank somebody; to pay 'em, if he could.
"How much, for instance?" says I.
"Why, I should readily have given five thousand for it," says he; "ten, if necessary."
"Not fifteen?" says I.
"I think I would," says he.
"Huh!" says I. "Some folks don't care what they do with money. We'll split the diff'rence though, and call it twelve and a half. But it don't cost you a cent. It's yours because you wanted it, that's all; and maybe the one that sent it is glad you've got it. That's as far as I can go."
"But see here, McCabe!" he insists. "Delighted as I am, I must know who it is that——"
Just here the front office door opens, and in walks J. Bayard. For a second he don't notice Twombley-Crane, who's standin' between me and the window.
"Oh, I say!" says Steele, sort of breathless and hasty. "Have you sent that away yet?"