"There!" Lapham pounded with his great hairy fist
on the envelope he had been addressing.

"William!" he called out, and he handed the letter
to a boy who came to get it. "I want that to go
right away. Well, sir," he continued, wheeling round
in his leather-cushioned swivel-chair, and facing Bartley,
seated so near that their knees almost touched, "so you
want my life, death, and Christian sufferings, do you,
young man?"

"That's what I'm after," said Bartley. "Your money
or your life."

"I guess you wouldn't want my life without the money,"
said Lapham, as if he were willing to prolong these moments
of preparation.

"Take 'em both," Bartley suggested. "Don't want your
money without your life, if you come to that. But you're
just one million times more interesting to the public than
if you hadn't a dollar; and you know that as well as I do,
Mr. Lapham. There 's no use beating about the bush."

"No," said Lapham, somewhat absently. He put out his huge
foot and pushed the ground-glass door shut between his
little den and the book-keepers, in their larger den outside.

"In personal appearance," wrote Bartley in the sketch