"Bud, old friend, I wish I could get you interested in--figures. And I
guess they surely are interesting, when you apply them to our own
concerns."
But Bud remained unmoved. He stretched himself in an ecstasy of ease,
raising his great arms above his grizzled head in profound enjoyment of
his bodily comfort.
He shook his head.
"Guess I know a steer. Guess I know grass when I see it. I wouldn't
say there's a brand in Montana I ain't familiar with. But
figgers--sums--they're hell. An' I don't guess I'm yearning for hell
anyway. Figgers is a sort o' paradise to you. You're built that way.
Say, I don't calc'late to rob you of a thing--not even paradise. We'll
take your figgers as they stand."
Jeffrey Masters shook his head.
"They're right, sure. But it's no sort of way to talk business."
"Business talk always makes me sweat."
It was quite impossible. Jeffrey was growing impatient. A frown
settled upon his broad brow, and the man in the rocker watched it with
amused eyes.
Quite suddenly the younger man's impatience broke forth into verbal
protest.
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