Gradually Peter got used to the twilight, and could see that Nelse
Ackerman was an old man with puffy, droopy cheeks and chin, and dark
puffy crescents under his eyes. He was quite bald, and had on his
head a skull cap of embroidered black silk, and a short, embroidered
jacket over his night shirt. Beside the bed stood a table covered
with glasses and bottles and pill-boxes, and also a telephone. Every
few minutes this telephone would ring, and Peter would wait
patiently while Mr. Ackerman settled some complex problem of
business. "I've told them my terms," he would say with irritation,
and then be would cough; and Peter, who was sharply watching every
detail of the conduct of the rich, noted that he was too polite even
to cough into the telephone. "If they will pay a hundred and
twenty-five thousand dollars on account, I will wait, but not a cent
less," Nelse Ackerman would say. And Peter, awe-stricken, realized
that he had now reached the very top of Mount Olympus, he was at the
highest point he could hope to reach until he went to heaven.
The old man fixed his dark eyes on his visitor. "Who wrote me that
letter?" whispered the husky voice.
Peter had been expecting this. "What letter, sir?"
"A letter telling me to see you.
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