“Now, this isn’t monkey-work with me, it’s business,” announced the newcomer.
“Indeed?” said Durkin, hesitating, and then taking up a fork.
“Now, first thing, I want to tell you something. That song and dance you threw up to the Old Boy over on the bench, about your bein’ an electric inventor in hard luck, caught my eye, first thing. Look here,—straight off the bat, d’ you want to get a cinch on a good job?”
“I do!” declared Durkin, through a mouthful of beans. “But doing what?”
“Same old thing!” answered the other, offhandedly.
Durkin put down his fork, indignantly.
“What same old thing?” he demanded.
“Operatin’, of course!”
Durkin, in a sudden tremor of alarm, felt that the break would come before even that steaming plate of beans was eaten. So he fought back his affronted dignity, and giving no sign of either surprise or wonder, parried for time.
“I’m tired of operating,” he said, washing a mouthful of his lunch down with a second glass of Terry’s London Dry. “My arm has been giving out.”