by Rex Stout
I shook my head positively. "Nothing doing. You'll keep beefing about your bullet wound, and anyway I can't afford it. You'll probably be luckier than ever."
He put a dignified stare on me. "A dime a game."
"No."
"A nickel."
"No. Not even for matches."
He stood silent, and after a minute of that heaved a deep sigh. "Your salary is raised ten dollars a week, beginning last Monday."
I lifted the brows. "Fifteen."
"Ten is enough."
I shook my head. "Fifteen."
He sighed again. "Confound you! All right. Fifteen."
I arose and went to the desk to get the red darts.
THE END
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Document ID: 49f316d7-934d-452a-9460-ce4dca2682d8
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 30.4.2012
Created using: calibre 0.8.13 software
Document authors :
Rex Stout
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