“I’ve read it. Mr. Higgins is reading it now. I think he’ll want it, Mr. Naidu. If you leave your address, we’ll mail you an offer to-morrow——”
“I will take two hundred dollars for the story, but I must have the money to-day.”
Dicky laughed quietly. “I’m afraid the countingroom won’t appreciate that. Countingroom’s not adaptable. It’s intricate, in fact; checks signed and countersigned.... Besides your price is severe for us—unknown name and all that. Oh, it’s not too much, only for us, you know.”
All the time he talked, Dicky knew Mr. Naidu would get his money, and get it to-day. A man with a story like this could get anything. He could write it on wood chips and bring the manuscript in a gunny sack....
“I’ll give him my personal check,” he told Higgins, a moment later. “The office can reimburse me.”
“I always forget you have a piece of change in your own name,” Higgins remarked indulgently. “Don’t ever let it interfere with your work, Dicky.”
“My work to-day is to get that manuscript in our vault. Later,” he added to himself, “my work is to write a story as good as that.”
“He might take less than two hundred——” John Higgins suggested in uncertain tone.
“I can’t bring that up—again,” Dicky said.
“I couldn’t either,” said the editor. “Maybe we are both crazy with the heat—steam heat. But I’ll stand by and see that you get your money. You’ll have to go out with him to get cash on your personal check.”