Shuttleworth started and put on his spectacles.
"Why shouldn't they buy the Remedy, after all?"
"You ask me that?" said Sypher. All through the interview he had not shifted his position. He sat fixed like a florid ghost.
The manager shuffled uneasily in his chair beside the desk, and cleared his throat nervously.
"I'm bound to," said he, "in self-defense. I know what you think of the Cure—but that's a matter of sentiment. I've been into the thing pretty thoroughly, and I know that there's scarcely any difference in the composition of the Remedy and the Cure. After all, any protecting grease that keeps the microbes in the air out of the sore place does just as well—sometimes better. There's nothing in patent ointment that really cures. Now is there?"
"Are you going to the Jebusa Jones people?" asked Sypher.
"I have my wife and family," the manager pleaded. "I couldn't refuse. They've offered me the position of their London agent. I know it must pain you," he added hurriedly, "but what could I do?"
"Every man for himself and the devil take the hindmost. So you will give me what they used to call my coup de grâce. You'll just stab me dead as I lie dying. Well, in a fortnight's time you can go."
The other rose. "Thank you very much, Mr. Sypher. You have always treated me generously, and I'm more than sorry to leave you. You bear me no ill will?"
"For going from one quack remedy to another? Certainly not."