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Updated: June 9, 2025
Pulcifer," he said, "I if you are not too greatly occupied I should like to ask ah a business question. Ah may I?" He most assuredly could. In fact, he was urged to ask it then and there. "Never too busy to talk business, a feller usually ain't; eh, Perfessor? Haw, haw! I'd say he wan't, eh? Set down, set down and ease your mind. What's the business question? Let 'er go." Mr.
Galusha did not appear to hear the question, and before it was repeated a knock, loud, portentous, threatening, sounded upon the door. "Let him in, Primmie," commanded Miss Phipps. Mr. Pulcifer entered. His bearing was as ominous as his knock. He nodded to Martha, glanced inquiringly at Cabot, and then turned his gaze upon Galusha Bangs.
Galusha deposited his hat upon the floor again, and sat down in the chair he had just vacated. Now it was he who, regardless of the cigar, leaned forward. "Mr. Pulcifer," he said, "an idea occurred to me while you were speaking just now. I don't know that it will be of any ah value to you. But you are quite welcome to it, really. This is the idea "
Pulcifer, "don't fly off the handle for nothin'. I ain't tryin' to put nothin' over on you. I'm just " "I don't want to hear you," broke in the second voice, gruffly. "This is the Lord's Day and I don't want to talk business with you or nobody else especially with you." For some reason this seemed to irritate Mr. Pulcifer. His tone had lost a little of its urbanity when he answered.
Galusha wonderingly gazed after him, shook his head, and then moved slowly up the path to the house. Primmie opened the door for him. Her eyes were snapping. "Hello, Mr. Bangs!" she said. "I 'most wisht he'd drop down dead and then freeze to death in a snowbank, that's what I wish." Galusha blinked. "Why, bless my soul!" he exclaimed. "Of whom are you speaking?" "That everlastin' Raish Pulcifer.
How's things down to the bluffs? Joggin' along, joggin' along in the same old rut, the way the feller with the wheelbarrer went to market? Eh? Haw, haw, haw! Have a cigar, Perfessor?" Galusha declined the cigar. He would also have declined the invitation to sit, but Mr. Pulcifer would not hear of it. He all but forced his caller into a chair. "Set down," he insisted.
"Game?... I ah pardon me, I don't know that I quite understand, Mr. Pulcifer." "Don't you? Well, I don't understand neither. But I cal'late to pretty quick. What did Jeth Hallett mean last night by sayin' that he'd sold his four hundred Development a couple of months ago? What did he mean by it?" Martha Phipps was about to speak. Cabot, too, leaned forward. But Galusha raised a protesting hand.
And he was constantly being reminded of it. Down at the post office at mail time he would feel his coat-tail pulled and looking up would see the face of Mr. Pulcifer solemnly gazing over his head at the rows of letter boxes.
"Say, Bangs," demanded he, eagerly, "do you mean you've still got that six hundred and fifty Development? Mean you ain't turned 'em over yet to anybody else?" "Eh? Why, no, Mr. Pulcifer, I haven't ah turned them over to any one else." "Good! Fust-rate! Fine and dandy! You and me can trade yet. You're all right, Perfessor, you are.
'Horatio Pulcifer, Dealer in Real Estate of All Kinds; Cranberry Bog Property Bought and Sold; Mortgages Arranged For; Fire, Life and Accident Insurance; Money Loaned; Claims Adjusted; Real or Household Goods Auctioned Off or Sold Private; etc., etc. Humph! Comprehensive person, isn't he? Is this the fellow you know, Miss Phipps?" Martha nodded. "Yes," she said, "I know him."
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