“Mary Randall, please write,” sneered the elder Boland.
“Stop! No!” Grogan, who had been sitting down jumped to his feet in protest. The others looked at him in astonishment. He sat down again shamefacedly. “I don’t want Mary Randall to write to me,” he admitted dolefully.
“What’s come over you, Grogan?” inquired John Boland sharply.
“A blue envelope—a sheet of blue paper with words on it, and—I’ve got a pain in the back of my neck.” Grogan brought forth the blue letter again and gazed at it gloomily.
“You’re crazy,” John Boland informed him curtly. Then he turned to Harry. “Look here, my boy,” he said, “don’t be a fool—”
“He’s your son,” interrupted Grogan chuckling.
“Keep quiet, Mike. You know, Harry, I own that property with Mike here, and—”
Grogan interrupted again. “Look here, John Boland,” he inquired, “how much will you give me for my share?”
“Two thousand dollars.”
“It’s yours,” said Grogan.