“It sartin is!” replied Uncle Billy. He did not merely twinkle this time. He grinned.
“How much?”
“Three thousand dollars.” Mr. Tutt was used to charging by this time, and he betrayed no hesitation.
“I’ll write you out a check at once,” and Mr. Van Kamp reached in his pocket with the reflection that the spot, after all, was an ideal one for a quiet summer retreat.
“Air you a-goin’ t’ scribble that there three thou-san’ on a piece o’ paper?” inquired Uncle Billy, sitting bolt upright. “Ef you air a-figgerin’ on that, Mr. Kamp, jis’ you save yore time. I give a man four dollars fer one o’ them check things oncet, an’ I owe myself them four dollars yit.”
Mr. Van Kamp retired in disorder, but the thought of his wife and daughter waiting confidently on the porch stopped him. Moreover, the thing had resolved itself rather into a contest between Ellsworth and himself, and he had done a little making and breaking of men and things in his own time. He did some gatling-gun thinking out by the newel-post, and presently rejoined Uncle Billy.
“Mr. Tutt, tell me just exactly what Mr. Ellsworth rented, please,” he requested.
“Th’ hull house,” replied Billy, and then he somewhat sternly added: “Paid me spot cash fer it, too.”
Mr. Van Kamp took a wad of loose bills from his trousers pocket, straightened them out leisurely, and placed them in his bill book, along with some smooth yellowbacks of eye-bulging denominations. Uncle Billy sat up and stopped twiddling his thumbs.
“Nothing was said about the furniture, was there?” suavely inquired Van Kamp.