Gift Shop
Mr. Gerald Webb, Manager.

"Oh, well," says I, "that ain't so bad. Must have run across a backer
somewhere."

"His sisters," says Steele. "He has five, and some of the four married
ones are quite well to do. Then there is Evelyn, the old maid sister,
who went in with him. It's from her I've found out so much about Gerald.
Nice, refined, pleasant old maid; although somewhat plain featured. She
tells me they have a shop at some seashore resort in summer,--Atlantic
City, or the Pier,--and occasionally have quite a successful season.
Then in the fall they open up again here. The last two summers, though,
they've barely made expenses, and she fears that Gerald is becoming
discouraged."

"Well, what you beefin' about?" says I. "There's your chance, ain't it?
Jump in and cheer him up. Go round every day and drink yourself full of
tea. Lug along your friends--anything. Got the whole Gordon estate back
of you, you know. And it's plain Pyramid had in mind squarin' accounts
for that raw deal he handed Gerald years back, or he wouldn't have named
him in the will. And if your dope is right, I judge there ought to be
something nice comin' to him."

"Of course, of course," says Steele. "But you see, McCabe, as an expert
in altruism, I have reached the point where I no longer act hastily on
crude conclusions. Possibly you will fail to understand, but now I take
a certain pride in doing just the right thing in exactly the right way."

"I knew you was developin' into some variety of nut," says I. "So that's
it, eh? Well, go on."

J. Bayard smiles indulgent and shrugs his shoulders. "For instance,"
says he, "this Gerald Webb seems to be one of those highly sensitive,
delicately organized persons; somewhat effeminate in fact. He needs
considerate, judicious handling."

"Then why not present him with an inlaid dressin' table and a set of
eyebrow pencils?" I suggest.

Steele brushes that little persiflage aside too. "He's no doubt an
idealist of some sort," says he, "a man with high hopes, ambitions. If
I only knew what they were----"

"Ain't tried askin' him, have you?" says I.

"Certainly not!" says J. Bayard. "Those are things which such persons
can rarely be induced to talk about. I've been studying him at close
range, however, by dropping in now and then for a cup of tea and
incidentally a chat with his sister; but to no effect. I can't seem to
make him out. And I was wondering, Shorty, if you, in your rough