'Gosh!' he said.
Bill felt a little damped. By no mental juggling could he construe
'Gosh!' into an expression of enthusiastic approbation.
Gates looked at Bill curiously. 'What's the idea?' he said. 'I
could have understood it if you had told me that you were going to
New York for pleasure, instructing your man Willoughby to see that
the trunks were jolly well packed and wiring to the skipper of
your yacht to meet you at Liverpool. But you seem to have sordid
motives. You talk about making money. What do you want with more
money?'
'Why, I'm devilish hard up.'
'Tenantry a bit slack with the rent?' said Gates sympathetically.
Bill laughed.
'My dear chap, I don't know what on earth you're talking about.
How much money do you think I've got? Four hundred pounds a year,
and no prospect of ever making more unless I sweat for it.'
'What! I always thought you were rolling in money.'
'What gave you that idea?'
'You have a prosperous look. It's a funny thing about England.
I've known you four months, and I know men who know you; but I've
never heard a word about your finances. In New York we all wear
labels, stating our incomes and prospects in clear lettering.
Well, if it's like that it's different, of course. There certainly
is more money to be made in America than here.
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