He shook it again.
The figures rose and rose to “Seventy-five.”
The answer was an invitation to go away and let the owner alone, as he was, in certain specified respects, the vilest of living creatures, and no company for a fine “gentyman.”
The fine “gentyman” longed to blaspheme; but before old Charlie, in the name of pride, how could he? He mounted and started away.
“Tell you what I’ll make wid you,” said Charlie.
The other, guessing aright, turned back without dismounting, smiling.
“How much Belles Demoiselles howes me now?” asked the deaf one.
“One hundred and eighty thousand dollars,” said the colonel, firmly.
“Yass,” said Charlie. “I don’t want Belles Demoiselles.”
The old colonel’s quiet laugh intimated it made no difference either way.