Part 41 (1/2)

No, he would wait, at least until he heard from the secretary in the West.

”Why, thank you, Mr. Barbour,” he said, rising. ”I--I will wait, I think.”

”All right, sir. Sorry, but you see how it is. Drop in again, Mr.--er--Barnes. Barnes was the name, wasn't it?”

”Why, not exactly. My name is Bangs, but it really doesn't matter in the least. Dear me, no. I am a relative of Mr. Cabot's. But that doesn't matter either. Good-morning, Mr. Barbour.”

But it did seem to matter, after all. At any rate, Mr. Barbour for the first time appeared actually interested.

”Eh?” he exclaimed. ”Bangs? Oh, just a minute, Mr. Bangs. Just a minute, if you please. Bangs? Why, are you--You're not the--er--professor?

Professor Ga--Ga--”

”Galusha. Yes, I am Galusha Bangs.”

”You don't mean it! Well, well, that's odd! I was planning to write you to-day, Professor. Let me see, here's the memorandum now. We look after your business affairs, I believe, Professor?”

Galusha nodded. He was anxious to get away. The significance of Cousin Gussie's illness and absence and what those might mean to Martha Phipps were beginning to dawn upon him. He wanted to get away and think. The very last thing he wished to do was to discuss his own business affairs.

”Yes,” he admitted; ”yes, you--ah--do. That is, Cousin Gussie--ah--Mr.

Cabot does. But, really, I--”

”I won't keep you but a moment, Professor. And what I'm going to tell you is good news, at that. I presume it IS news; or have you heard of the Tinplate melon?”

It was quite evident that Galusha had not heard. Nor, hearing now, did the news convey anything to his mind.

”Melon?” he repeated. ”Ah--melon, did you say?”

”Why, yes. The Tinplate people are--”

It was a rather long story, and telling it took longer than the minute Mr. Barbour had requested. To Galusha it was all a tangled and most uninteresting snarl of figures and stock quotations and references to ”preferred” and ”common” and ”new issues” and ”rights.” He gathered that, somehow or other, he was to have more money, money which was coming to him because the ”Tinplate crowd,” whoever they were, were to do something or other that people like Barbour called ”cutting a melon.”

”You understand, Professor?” asked Mr. Barbour, concluding his explanation.

Galusha was at that moment endeavoring to fabricate a story of his own, one which he might tell Miss Phipps. It must not be too discouraging, it must--

”Eh?” he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, coming out of his daydream. ”Oh, yes--yes, of course.”

”As near as I can figure, your share will be well over twelve thousand.

A pretty nice little windfall, I should say. Now what shall I do with it?”

”Yes.... Oh, I beg your pardon. Dear me, I am afraid I was not attending as I should.”

”I say what shall I do with the check when it comes. That was what I intended writing you to ask. Do you wish me to reinvest the money, or shall I send the check to you?”

”Yes--ah--yes. If you will be so kind. You will excuse me, won't you, but really I must hurry on. Thank you very much, Mr. Barbour.”

”But I don't quite understand which you wish me to do, Professor. Of course, Thomas usually attends to all this--your affairs, I mean--but I am trying not to trouble him unless it is absolutely necessary. Shall I send the check direct to you, is that it?”

”Yes--yes, that will do very nicely. Thank you, Mr. Barbour.