“No, I tell you once for all! If you don’t like my offer,—and it is an uncommonly liberal one,—say so, and I’ll expose you this afternoon upon ‘Change.”
“Well then, there’s a cheque. But may the—”
“Stop, sir! Any such profane expressions, and I shall insist upon the original bargain. So then, now we’re quits. I wish you a very good-morning, Mr. Sawley, and better luck next time. Pray remember me to your amiable family.”
The door had hardly closed upon the discomfited coffin-maker, and I was still in the preliminary steps of an extempore pas seul, intended as the outward demonstration of exceeding inward joy, when Bob M’Corkindale entered. I told him the result of the morning’s conference.
“You have let him off too easily,” said the political economist. “Had I been his creditor, I certainly should have sacked the shares into the bargain. There is nothing like rigid dealing between man and man.”
“I am contented with moderate profits,” said I; “besides, the image of Selina overcame me. How goes it with Jobson and Grabbie?”
“Jobson had paid, and Grabbie compounded. Heckles—may he die an evil death!—has repudiated, become a lame duck, and waddled; but no doubt his estate will pay a dividend.”
“So then, we are clear of the whole Glenmutchkin business, and at a handsome profit.”
“A fair interest for the outlay of capital—nothing more. But I’m not quite done with the concern yet.”
“How so? not another bearing operation?”