“Two hundred, or I wire them New York parties I've been dickerin' with.”
And Pendagrast seen that he was like adamant—like adamant covered up with cotton-batting.
“No,” cries Pendagrast, “rather than have you do that, I'll pay what the land's worth.”
“Two hundred,” says Silas, gentle but firm.
Mrs. Quinby, looking through the keyhole, says she seen something like a mortal agony wrench Pendagrast; then he groaned horrid, showin' the whites of his eyes, and says weak:
“Fetch pen and paper. It's highway robbery, but I'll sign—I got to,” he says.
“I've the papers ready for you,” says Silas.
Pendagrast signed them, then he drawed himself up.
“I shudder for your future, Quinby,” he says. “No, I won't shake hands with you; I don't feel cordial.”
And he groped his way out to where his big tourin'-car was drawed up under the maples.