I says.  ’What d’you mean?’ he says.  ‘I mean,’ says I, ’that I’ve got a second morgidge on that prop’ty, an’ I begin to tremble fer my secur’ty.  You’ve jest told me,’ I says, ‘that you’re goin’ to foreclose an’ I cal’late to protect myself, an’ I don’t cal’late,’ I says, ‘to have to go an’ bid on that prop’ty, an’ put in a lot more money to save my investment, unless I’m ‘bleeged to—­not much! an’ you can jest sign that morgidge over to me, an’ the sooner the quicker,’ I says.”

David brought his hand down on his thigh with a vigorous slap, the fellow of the one which, John could imagine, had emphasized his demand upon Swinney.  The story, to which he had at first listened with polite patience merely, he had found more interesting as it went on, and, excusing himself, he brought up a stool, and mounting it, said, “And what did Swinney say to that?” Mr. Harum emitted a gurgling chuckle, yawned his quid out of his mouth, tossing it over his shoulder in the general direction of the waste basket, and bit off the end of a cigar which he found by slapping his waistcoat pockets.  John got down and fetched him a match, which he scratched in the vicinity of his hip pocket, lighted his cigar (John declining to join him on some plausible pretext, having on a previous occasion accepted one of the brand), and after rolling it around with his lips and tongue to the effect that the lighted end described sundry eccentric curves, located it firmly with an upward angle in the left-hand corner of his mouth, gave it a couple of vigorous puffs, and replied to John’s question.

“Wa’al, ‘Zeke Swinney was a perfesser of religion some years ago, an’ mebbe he is now, but what he said to me on this pertic’ler occasion was that he’d see me in hell fust, an’ then he wouldn’t.

“‘Wa’al,’ I says, ’mebbe you won’t, mebbe you will, it’s alwus a pleasure to meet ye,’ I says, ’but in that case this morgidge bus’nis ‘ll be a question fer our executors,’ I says, ’fer you don’t never foreclose that morgidge, an’ don’t you fergit it,’ I says.

“‘Oh, you’d like to git holt o’ that prop’ty yourself.  I see what you’re up to,’ he says.

“’Look a-here, ‘Zeke Swinney,’ I says, ’I’ve got an int’rist in that prop’ty, an’ I propose to p’tect it.  You’re goin’ to sign that morgidge over to me, or I’ll foreclose and surrygate ye,’ I says, ’unless you allow to bid in the prop’ty, in which case we’ll see whose weasel-skin’s the longest.  But I guess it won’t come to that,’ I says.  ’You kin take your choice,’ I says.  ‘Whether I want to git holt o’ that prop’ty myself ain’t neither here nor there.  Mebbe I do, an’ mebbe I don’t, but anyways,’ I says, ’you don’t git it, nor wouldn’t ever, for if I can’t make you sign over, I’ll either do what I said or I’ll back the widder in a defence fer usury.  Put that in your pipe an’ smoke it,’ I says.

“‘What do you mean?’ he says, gittin’ half out his chair.