"Not if she lived to be two hunderd years old!" Henry Rooter added. Then he had an afterthought. "Not unless she pays for it."
"How do you mean?" Herbert asked, puzzled by this codicil.
Now Henry's brow had become corrugated with no little professional impressiveness. "You know what we were talkin' about this morning?" he said. "How the right way to run our newspaper, we ought to have some advertisements in it and everything? Well, we want money, don't we? We could put this poem in our newspaper like an advertisement;--that is, if Florence has got any money, we could."
Herbert frowned. "If her ole poem isn't too long I guess we could. Here, let's see it, Florence." And, taking the sheet of paper in his hand, he studied the dimensions of the poem, without paining himself to read it. "Well, I guess, maybe we can do it," he said. "How much ought we to charge her?"
This question sent Henry Rooter into a state of calculation, while Florence observed him with veiled anxiety; but after a time he looked up, his brow showing continued strain. "Do you keep a bank, Florence--for nickels and dimes and maybe quarters, you know?" he inquired.
It was her cousin who impulsively replied for her. "No, she don't," he said.
"Not since I was about seven years old!" And Florence added sharply, though with dignity: "Do you still make mud pies in your back yard, pray?"
"Now, see here!" Henry objected. "Try and be a lady anyway for a few minutes, can't you? I got to figure out how much we got to charge you for your ole poem, don't I?"
"Well, then," Florence returned, "you better ask me somep'n about that, hadn't you?"
"Well," said Henry Rooter, "have you got any money at home?"
"No, I haven't."
"Have you got any money with you?"
"Yes, I have."
"How much is it?"
"I won't tell you."
Henry frowned. "I guess we ought to make her pay about two dollars and a half," he said, turning to his partner.
Herbert became deferential; it seemed to him that he had formed a business association with a genius, and for a moment he was dazzled; then he remembered Florence's financial capacities, always well known to him, and he looked depressed. Florence, herself, looked indignant.
"Two dollars and a half!" she cried. "Why, I could buy this whole place for two dollars and a half, printing-press, railing, and all--yes, and you thrown in, Mister Henry Rooter!"