"Weel, Mr. Moore?" repeated McDermot, realizing at a single glance that the person addressing him was much in need of something he hoped to obtain as the result of this interview, and wisely concluding that this something was money.
"You wished me to write a long poem, for which you asserted you were willing to pay in advance, if by so doing you secured the exclusive right to all my work for the next two years."
"So I said, Mr. Moore, but that was a week ago, sair. However, continue your remarks."
"At that time I did not regard the matter favorably," continued Moore, "but since then I have changed my mind. I accept your offer, sir."
"Ah, do ye? And what terms did I propose, Mr. Moore?"
"You named none, sir, but from the way you spoke I fancied you would be agreeable to any reasonable bargain I might propose."
"True, sair, true, but what is reasonable in one man's eyes may weel be considered exhorbitant by anither. Ha' the kindness to name in figures, Mr. Moore, what ye deem ye due."
McDermot spoke in his most chilling tones, indifference ringing its baleful note in each word. Moore's heart sank, but he struggled bravely on with his hopeless task, resolved not to even acknowledge the possibility of defeat until failure absolute and crushing should be forced upon him beyond all denying.
"I have decided to ask one thousand pounds in advance, sir," he began, intending to name the royalty he hoped to be paid upon each copy of the poem sold, but the look he received from the grim old Scotchman made him hesitate and falter with the words upon his lips unspoken.
"One thousand poonds!" ejaculated McDermot, terribly shocked, if the tone in which he spoke could be regarded as a truthful indication of his feelings. "One thousand poonds, Mr. Moore? What jest is this, sair?"