"But you're not taking it that way, I see."
Farrell nodded.
"You just want to be cleared out. . . . That's all right. You shall
tell me all about it later, boss--any time that suits you."
He handed the paperweight across to Farrell. "Ever come across that
kind of wood?" he asked.
Farrell examined it. "Never," he answered. "It looks like
mahogany--if 'tweren't for the colour. Dyed, is it?"
"Not a bit. I could show you with a chisel in two minutes. . . . But
you're right. Mahogany it is, and cuts like mahogany. . . . I keep a
high-class warehouse of stuff lower down-town, and there I'll show
you a log of it, seven-by-four. It's from Costa Rica. Would you
care to prospect? . . . I don't mind sharing secrets with the old
firm, as you always dealt with me honourably and we're both growing
old enough to remember old kindness."
"I'd make a holiday of it," said Farrell heartily, fingering the
wood. "Comes from Costa Rica, eh?"
"There's not much of it going, even there," said Renton.
"Not enough, I'm afraid, to start a fashionable craze. It was
brought to me, as a sample, by an enterprising skipper from Puerto
Limon, and I was going to send back a man with him, to prospect.
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