and he takes the count, and I'm
never allowed to see Claire again. Turn the roughneck out on his ear. I
s'pose I'm vulgar. I s'pose that fellow Michael in _Youth's Encounter_
wouldn't talk about snoots. I don't care, I'll---- If I poke Saxton
one---- I'm not afraid of the kid-glove precinct any more. My brain's
as good as theirs, give it a chance. But oh, they're all against me. And
they bust the Athletic Union's wrestling rule that 'striking, kicking,
gouging, hair-pulling, butting, and strangling will not be allowed.' How
long can I go on being good-natured? When I do break loose----"

Slowly, beneath the moral cuff of his dress-shirt, Milt's fist closed in
a brown, broad-knuckled lump, and came up in the gesture of a right to
the jaw. But it came up only a foot. The hand opened, climbed to Milt's
face, rubbed his temples, while he sighed:

"Nope. Can't even do that. Bigger game now. Used to could--used to be
able to settle things with a punch. But I've got to be more--oh, more
diplomatic now. Oh Lord, how lonely I get for Bill McGolwey. No. That
isn't true. I couldn't stand Bill now. Claire took all that out of me.
Where am I, where am I? Why did I ever get a car that takes a 36 x 6?"

CHAPTER XXXII

THE CORNFIELD ARISTOCRAT

It was an innocent little note from Jeff Saxton; a polite, humble little
note; it said that Jeff had a card to the Astoria Club, and wouldn't
Milt please have lunch with him? But Milt dropped it on the table, and
he walked round it as though it were a dictagraph which he'd discovered
in the table drawer after happy, happy, hidden hours at counterfeiting.

It seemed more dangerous to refuse than to go. He browned the celebrated
new shoes; he pressed the distinguished new trousers, with a light and
quite unsatisfactory flatiron; he re-re-retied his best spotted blue
bow--it persisted in having the top flaps too short, but the retying
gave him spiritual strength--and he modestly clumped into the aloof
brick portal of the Astoria Club on time.

He had never been in a club before.

He looked at the red tiled floor of the entrance hall; he stared through
the hall into an immense lounge with the largest and softest chairs in
the world, with oil portraits of distinguished old bucks, and ninety per
cent. of the wealth and power of Seattle pulling its several mustaches,
reading the P.I., and ignoring the lone intruder out in the hall.

A small Zulu in blue tights and brass buttons glared