“Annie, be good!” he said in his jolly way. “We've got business to talk. Put us somewhere alone.”
Newmark nodded approval, and thrust his hand in his pocket. But Annie looked up into Orde's frank, laughing face, and her lips curved ever so faintly in the condescension of a smile.
“Sure, sorr,” said she, in a most unexpected brogue.
“Well, I've got 'em all,” said Orde, as soon as the waitress had gone with the order. “But the best stroke of business you'd never guess. I roped in Heinzman.”
“Good!” approved Newmark briefly.
“It was really pretty decent of the little Dutchman. He agreed to let us put up our stock as security. Of course, that security is good only if we win out; and if we win out, why, then he'll get his logs, so he won't have any use for security. So it's just one way of beating the devil around the bush. He evidently wanted to give us the business, but he hated like the devil to pass up his rules—you know how those old shellbacks are.”
“H'm, yes,” said Newmark.
The waitress sailed in through a violently kicked swinging door, bearing aloft a tin tray heaped perilously. She slanted around a corner in graceful opposition to the centrifugal, brought the tray to port on a sort of landing stage by a pillar, and began energetically to distribute small “iron-ware” dishes, each containing a dab of something. When the clash of arrival had died, Orde went on:
“I got into your department a little, too.”
“How's that?” asked Newmark, spearing a baked potato. “Heinzman said he'd buy some of our stock. He seems to think we have a pretty good show.”