t.

"Well, so long," says I. "I get out here."

"To leave me among the Ishmaelites!" says he. "And I've two useless
hours to dispose of. Let me go a way with you?"

I hadn't counted on annexin' Alvin for the rest of the day, and I expect
I could have shook him if I'd tried; but by that time he'd got me kind
of curious to know who and what he was, and why. So I tows him over as
far as the Physical Culture Studio.

"Here's where I make some of 'em forget their egos, at so much per,"
says I, pointin' to the sign.

"Ah, the red corpuscle method!" says he. "Primitive; but effective, I've
no doubt. I must see it in operation."

And an hour later he's still there, reposin' comf'table in an office
chair with his feet on the windowsill, smokin' cigarettes, and throwin'
off chunks of classy dialogue that had Swifty Joe gawpin' at him like
he was listenin' to a foreign language.

"My assistant, Mr. Gallagher," says I, by way of apologizin'.

Alvin jumps up and shakes him hearty by the mitt. "Allow me to offer you
a cigarette, Sir," says he.

"Much obliged," says Swifty, eyin' the thin silver case with the gold
linin'. "Gee! what a swell box!"

"Do you fancy it?" says Alvin. "Then it is yours, with my best
compliments."

"Ah-r-r-r chee, no!" protests Swifty.

"Please, as a favor to me," insists Alvin, pushin' the case into his
hand. "One finds so few ways of giving pleasure. In return I shall
remember gratefully the direct sincerity of your manner. Charming!"

And, say, I expect it's the first time in his whole career that anybody
ever discovered any good points about Swifty Joe Gallagher on first
sight. He backs out with his mouth open and his face tinted up like an
old maid's that's been kissed in the dark.

But that little play only makes it all the harder for me to shoo him
out. The fact is, though, it's gettin' almost time for a directors'
meetin' that's to be pulled off in my front office. Sounds imposin',
don't it? Didn't know I was on a board, eh? Well, I am, and up to date
it's been one of the richest luxuries I ever blew myself to. I'd been
roped, that's all.

Young Blair Woodbury, one of my downtown reg'lars, had opened the cellar
door for me. Thinks he's a great promoter, Blair does. And somewhere
he'd dug up this nutty inventor with his milk container scheme. Oh, it
listens good, the way he put it. Just a two-ounce, woodpulp, mailin'
cartridge lined with oiled paper, that could be turned out for a do