Irish -- United States -- Fiction; New York (N.Y.) -- Fiction; Runaway wives -- Fiction
Otto took the bundle and loosened the roll again. “I got a little girl,
Beesving--dot was her dog make such foolishness--who likes dese t'ings.
But dot is not business, for I doan sell it again once I gif it to her.
I joost put it around her shoulders for a New Year's gift. Maybe if
you--” He re-examined it closely, especially the tear, which had partly
yielded to Lady Barbara's deft fingers and tired eyes. “Vell, I tell you
vot I do, I gif you tventy tollars.”
“That, I am afraid, will not answer my purpose,” said Dalton. “Perhaps,
however, you will loan me thirty dollars on it and hold the lace for a
week or so, and I will pay you back thirty-five when some money that is
due me comes in?”
Otto looked at him from under his bushy eyebrows. “Ve don't do dot kind
of business. If I buy--I buy. If I sell--I sell. Sometimes I pay more as
a t'ing is vorth. Sometimes I pay less. I have a expert vid me who knows
vat dis is vorth, but he is busy vid a customer on de next floor, and I
doan sent for him. If you vant de tventy tollars you can have it. If you
doan, den take avay de lace. I got a lot of t'ings to do more as to talk
about it. Ven you see Blobbs, you tell him vat I say.”
Dalton's mind worked rapidly. To take the money would clean off his debt
and leave him a margin which he might treble before midnight.
“Give me the money,” he said. “It is not one-third of its value, but I
see that it is all I can do.”
Otto smiled--the smile of a man who had hit the thing at which he
aimed--felt in his inside pocket, drew out a great flat pocketbook, and
counted out the bills.
Dalton swept them up as a winner at baccarat sweeps up his coin,
apparently without counting them, stuffed the crumpled bank-notes into
his pocket, and started for the door.
Half-way down the long shop he halted opposite a sideboard laden with
old silver and glass and, to show that he was not in a hurry, paused for
an instant, picking up a cut-glass decanter with a silver top, remarking
casually, as he laid it back, “Like one I have at home,” continuing
his inspection by holding aloft a pipe-stem glass, to see the color the
better.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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