“Sorry, Mr. Slivowitz, but I can’t consider it,” he said.
“Oh, come now, Mr. Sloane!” protested the dyer, with a laugh, leaning back in his chair. He produced a thick cigar and bit off the end. “These here scruples does you credit, Mr. Sloane, but business is business; and, take it from me, Mr. Sloane, you can’t mix business up mit ethics. Them things is all right, but you gotta skin the other guy before he skins you first, ain’t it?”
“That may be——” began the secretary, as he moved toward the door.
“May be? Ain’t I just told you it is?” Slivowitz paused in the act of striking a match to glare. “You needn’t to be scared they’ll find it out where you come from and fire you, neither, Mr. Sloane,” he added, more quietly and with a cunning expression. “I got brains, I have. A little thing like recommends to a smart man like me——” The match broke. He flung it into the cuspidor and selected another.
Sloane paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Mr. Slivowitz——” he began again.
“Of course,” continued his employer, “I could make it—well, a hundred fifteen, Mr. Sloane. But, believe me, not a cent more, posi-tive-ly.”
The secretary shook his head decidedly.
“What?” roared Slivowitz. “Y’ mean to tell me y’ ain’t goin’ to do it? All right; you’re fired anyhow, you understand me.” Then with an evil glitter in his eyes, “And if you don’t bring by me that formula, you get fired from the Domestic Dye Works; and you don’t get it no job nowheres else, too! Now, you take your choice.” This time the match lighted successfully.
Sloane smiled. “Quite impossible,” he said. “I was going to resign in a day or two, anyway.”
“Eh?” exclaimed the head of the firm, his jaw dropping and his florid face paling a little. In the face of a number of possibilities he forgot the match in his fingers.