“Sir, we’re in a terrible rush, so—” this one voice said.
“Don’t you hurry me, sonny, you hurry a miracle man, you get rotten miracles, that what you want?”
“You’ll do it, then?”
“I didn’t say I’d do it, sonny, don’t try pressuring a miracle man, not this one; you try pressuring me, out you go, how much money you got?”
“Give me your money Fezzik?” the same voice said again.
“Here’s all I’ve got,” this great voice boomed. “You count it, Inigo.”
There was a pause. “Sixty-five is what we’ve got,” the one called Inigo said.
Valerie was about to clap her hands with joy when Max said, “I never worked for anything that little in my life; you got to be joking, excuse me again; I got to belch my witch; she’s done eating by now.”
Valerie hurried back to the coals and waited until Max joined her. “No good,” he said. “They only got twenty.”
Valerie stirred away at the stove. She knew the truth but dreaded having to say it, so she tried another tack. “We’re practically out of chocolate powder; twenty could sure be a help at the barterer’s tomorrow.”
“No chocolate powder?” Max said, visibly upset. Chocolate was one of his favorites, right after cough drops.
“Maybe if it was a good cause you could lower yourself to work for twenty,” Valerie said. “Find out why they need the miracle.”
“They’d probably lie.”
“Use the bellows cram if you’re in doubt. Look: I would hate to have it on my conscience if we didn’t do a miracle when nice people were involved.”
“You’re a pushy lady,” Max said, but he went back upstairs. “Okay,” he said to the skinny guy. “What’s so special I should bring back out of all the hundreds of people pestering me every day for my miracles this particular fella? And, believe me, it better be worth while.”
Inigo was about to say “So he can tell me how to kill Count Rugen,” but that didn’t quite sound like the kind of thing that would strike a cranky miracle man as aiding the general betterment of mankind, so he said, “He’s got a wife, he’s got fifteen kids, they haven’t a shred of food; if he stays dead, they’ll starve, so—”
“Oh, sonny, are you a liar,” Max said, and he went to the corner and got out a huge bellows. “I’ll ask him,” Max grunted, lifting the bellows toward Westley.
“He’s a corpse; he can’t talk,” Inigo said.
“We got our ways” was all Max would answer, and he stuck the huge bellows way down into Westley’s throat and started to pump. “You see,” Max explained as he pumped, “there’s different kinds of dead: there’s sort of dead, mostly dead, and all dead. This fella here, he’s only sort of dead, which means there’s still a memory inside, there’s still bits of brain. You apply a little pressure here, a little more there, sometimes you get results.”
Westley was beginning to swell slightly now from all the pumping.
“What are you doing?” Fezzik said, starting to get upset.
“Never mind, I’m just filling his lungs; I guarantee you it ain’t hurting him.” He stopped pumping the bellows after a few moments more, and then started shouting into Westley’s ear: “WHAT’S SO IMPORTANT? WHAT’S HERE WORTH COMING BACK FOR? WHAT YOU GOT WAITING FOR YOU?” Max carried the bellows back to the corner then and got out a pen and paper. “It takes a while for that to work its way out, so you might as well answer me some questions. How well do you know this guy?”