insignificant,
even humorously insignificant; but to Henry it was stupendous, and
for two widely varying reasons.

"Just to think over," said Standish. "In case."

Henry's fists were doubled. "It isn't so much the ... the commercial
side of it, Bob, but when I know you've always had me down for such an
_incompetent_ sort of--"

"That was before the war. To tell the truth, old rubbish, last August
I couldn't have seen it with the Lick telescope. Thought you were a
great scout, of course--good pal--all that--but _business_; that's
different. A friend's one thing; but a partner's a lot of 'em."

Henry was staring fixedly at him. "I wouldn't have any money to speak
of--"

"Then don't speak of it. _I_'ll name the price. The price is your
year's profit on the Orpheum."

There was a little silence. "When did you get this hunch, Bob?"

"Oh, about last February."

"But it was about then that I came in here one day, and--and you said
you--you said one pal _couldn't_ boss another. You said--"

"Oh!... But as I recall it, you were talking about a job."

"Yes, and you said you wouldn't give me one! And ever since then I've
been--"

"Idiot!" said Standish. "Is that what's been gnawing at his tender
heart! Why, you astigmatic fool--why.... Stop right there! Certainly I
wouldn't have you for an employe, but as a partner--that's different.
If you apologize, I'll slay you. Shake hands and wipe it off your
brain.... Now let's get back to business. We've got to have quick
action."

CHAPTER XV

As the train slowed for the station, and a score of other passengers
began to assemble wraps and luggage, Mr. Theodore Mix sat calm and
undisturbed, although inwardly he was still raging at Mirabelle for
making a spectacle of him. It was fully half an hour ago that she had
prodded him into activity, ignored his plea of greater experience in
ways of travel, and compelled him to get the suitcases out to the
platform (she didn't trust the porter), to help her on with her cape,
and to be in instant readiness for departure. For half an hour she had
sat bolt upright on the edge of her seat, an umbrella in one hand and
an antique satchel in the other, and her air was a public proclamation
that no railroad, soulless corporation though it might be, was going
to carry her one inch beyond her destination.

By a superhuman effort, Mr. Mix removed his eyes from Mirabelle's
convention badge. It was a chaste decoration of three metal bars