"When will you know?"
"Perhaps next week. Perhaps never."
The Baron gave a short, impatient laugh. "I thought you Americans were such quick, sharp businessmen."
"I'm not a businessman. I'm an ex-cowpuncher, and I've all the time in the world. Let’s turn in."
"Verdammt noch 'mal!" The Baron lapsed into hectic, vituperative German. But he controlled himself, "I make that offer six hundred thousand," he continued.
Tom Graves rose.
"Quit tilting the jackpot," he advised. "I'm not playing;" and that was all the answer the other could get out of him though that night. All the following week he returned to the attack, periodically raising his bid until he had reached an even million, and even Tom kicked himself for a stubborn fool. "But," as he explained it afterwards, "I never sell when the other fellow is too damned anxious ta buy. It may be punk business, but it's me!"
At the end of the week Tom decided to return to Spokane.
"You can stay here. Gamble'll take good care of you," he told the Baron.
But the German said he would come along to town, and all the way to Spokane he repeated his offer for the Yankee Doodle Glory, raising his bid time and again, and finally driving Tom into an access of American abruptness.
"Stow that nagging, You aren't my wife, nor my mother-in-law, and you aren't even my side-kick. I don't want to sell, and hell, brimstone, and datmnation can't budge me when I've made up my mind, see?"
