"Bah!" snaps Old Hickory. "It's all waste land, isn't it? Of course he'll sell. Who is he, anyway?"
"His name," says Ballinger, pawin' over some letters, "is T. Waldo Pettigrew. Lives in New York, I believe; at least, his attorneys are here. And this is all we have been able to get out of them—a flat no." And he slides an envelope across the mahogany table.
"But what's his reason?" demands Old Hickory. "Why? That's what I want to know."
Ballinger shrugs his shoulders. "I don't pretend," says he, "to understand the average New Yorker."
"Hah!" snorts Mr. Ellins. "Once more that old alibi of the limber-spined; that hoary fiction of the ten-cent magazine and the two-dollar drama. Average New Yorker! Listen, Ballinger. There's no such thing. We're just as different, and just as much alike, as anybody else. In other words, we're human. And this Pettigrew person you seem to think such a mysterious and peculiar individual—well, what about him? Who and what is he?"
"According to the deeds," says Ballinger, "he is the son of Thomas J. and Mary Ann Pettigrew, both deceased. His attorneys are Mott, Drew & Mott. They write that their client absolutely refuses to sell any land anywhere. They have written that three times. They have declined to discuss any proposition. And there you are."
"You mean," sneers Old Hickory, "that there you are."
"If you can suggest anything further," begins Ballinger, "we shall be glad to—"
"I know," breaks in Old Hickory, "you'd be glad to fritter away another six months and let those International Power people jump in ahead of us. No, thanks. I mean to see if I can't get a little action now. Robert, who have we out there in the office who's not especially busy? Oh, yes, Torchy. I say, young man! You—Torchy!"
"Calling me, sir?" says I, slidin' out of my chair and into the next room prompt.