A hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I considered that for a while.
Arthur clattered warningly.
"Well," I temporized, "I'd have to be sure he was getting into good
hands--"
The typewriter thrashed wildly. The sheet of paper fluttered out of
the carriage. He'd used it up. Automatically I picked it up--it was
covered with imprecations, self-pity and threats--and started to put a
new one in.
"No," I said, bending over the typewriter, "I guess I couldn't sell
him. It just wouldn't be right--"
That was my mistake; it was the wrong time for me to say that, because
I had taken my eyes off her.
The room bent over and clouted me.
I half turned, not more than a fraction conscious, and I saw this Amy
girl, behind me, with the shoe still in her hand, raised to give me
another blackjacking on the skull.
The shoe came down, and it must have weighed more than it looked, and
even the fractional bit of consciousness went crashing away.