Before it had stopped bumping, there fluttered down upon the
seat of his chair a handful of greenbacks. Another followed, and
another, and another. The bills toppled and spread, and some of
them slid to the floor. Still the man delved.
"There!" he panted at last. "Money talks. There's the stuff.
Count it. Eighteen hundred if there's a dollar. More likely two
thou. If that ain't enough, make your own price. I don't care what
it is. Make it, Misser. Put a price on it."
There was something loathsome and obscene in the creature's
gibbering flux of words. The editor leaned forward.
"Bribery, eh?" he inquired softly.
The man flinched from the tone. "It ain't bribery, is it, to ast
you to rout out jus' one line from an ad an' pay you for the
trouble. My own ad, too. If it runs, it's my finish. I was nutty
when I wrote it. Fer Gawsake, Misser--"
"Stop it! You say Morrison sent you here?"
"No, sir. Not exac'ly. 'S like this, M' Wald'mar. I hadda get to
you some way. It's important to Misser Morrison, too.
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