Digital heart book

"Somebody call me a messenger boy."
At last somebody did, but it was not the captain.
"HE'S SENDING FOR INSTRUCTIONS," I wrote to
Pinkerton.
"For money," he wrote back. "Shall I strike out? I
think this is the time."
I nodded.
"Thirty thousand," said Pinkerton, making a leap of
close upon three thousand dollars.
I could see doubt in Bellairs's eye; then, sudden
resolution. "Thirty-five thousand," said he.
"Forty thousand," said Pinkerton.
There was a long pause, during which Bellairs's
countenance was as a book; and then, not much too soon
for the impending hammer, "Forty thousand and five
dollars," said he.
Pinkerton and I exchanged eloquent glances. We were of
one mind. Bellairs had tried a bluff; now he perceived
his mistake, and was bidding against time; he was
trying to spin out the sale until the messenger boy
returned.
"Forty-five thousand dollars," said Pinkerton: his
voice was like a ghost's and tottered with emotion.
"Forty-five thousand and five dollars," said Bellairs.
"Fifty thousand," said Pinkerton.


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