“No, no,” said the other, coolly; “not at all; we might shut up shop if we made such post obit bargains as that.”
“I'll tell you,” said Fardorougha; “I'll tell you what;” his eyes gleamed with a reddish, bitter light; and he clasped his withered hands together, until the joints cracked, and the perspiration teemed from his pale, sallow features; “I'll tell you,” he added—“I'll make it seventy!”
“No.”
“Aighty!”
“No.”
“Ninety!”—with a husky shriek
“No, no.”
“A hundhre'—a hundhre'—a hundhre',” he shouted; “a hundhre', when I'm gone—when I'm gone!”
One solemn and determined No, that precluded all hopes of any such arrangement, was the only reply.
The old man leaped up again, and looked impatiently and wildly and fiercely about him.