"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 ejaculated, 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.
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