Sure enough, there was. He handed 'em to me easy; oh, nice and easy! He didn't want much for a starter—just a trifle put within easy reach before the knot was tied, a mere matter of ten million francs.
"No Jims nor Joes?" says I.
"The Baron is accustomed to reckoning in francs," says Pinckney. "He means two million dollars."
"Two million cases?" says I, catchin' my breath. Well, say! I had to take another look at him. If I could think as well of myself as that I wouldn't ask no better.
"Patchouli," says I, "you're too modest. You shouldn't put yourself on the bargain counter like that."
The Baron looks like I'd said somethin' to him in Chinese.
"The professor thinks that demand is quite reasonable, considering all things," says Pinckney.
And that went with the Baron. Then he has to shake hands all round, same's if we'd signed terms for a championship go, and him and Pinckney gets under way for some private high-ball factory over on the avenue. I wa'n't sorry to lose 'em. Somehow I wanted to get my mind on something else.
Well, I put in a busy mornin', tryin' to teach blocks and jabs to a couple of youngsters that thinks boxin' is a kind of wrist exercise, like piano-playin', and I'd got a pound or so off a nice plump old Bishop, who comes here for hand-ball and stunts like that. I was still feelin' a bit ugly and wishin' there was somethin' sizable around to take it out on, when in comes Curly Locks and Pinckney again.
"Has he made up his mind that he wants my wad, too?" says I to Pinckney.