I've got to have that script."
"You go to Hell!" said Mr. Beecher. You could hear him
plainly through the window, high up in the wall. And although I
do not approve of an oath, there are times when it eases the
tortured Soul.
"Now be reasonable, Reg," Mr. Patten pleaded. "I've put a
fortune in this thing, and you're lying down on the job. You
could do it in four hours if you'd put your mind to it."
There was no anser to this. And he went on:
"I'll send out food or anything. But nothing to drink.
There's Champane on the ice for you when you've finished,
however. And you'll find pens and ink and paper on the table."
The anser to this was Mr. Beecher's full weight against the
door. But it held, even against the full force of his fine
physic.
"Even if you do break it open," Mr. Patten said, "you can't
go very far the way you are. Now be a good fellow, and let's get
this thing done. It's for your good as well as mine. You'll make
a Fortune out of it."
Then he went into his own door, and soon came out, looking
like a gentleman, unless one knew, as I did, that he was a
Whited Sepulcher.
Pages:
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145