"There's eight or tin more of thim things," the big fellow was beginning.
"Is that the Floater?" I asked in a hurried undertone, as the little man hobbled down the steps and made his way toward us in the semi-darkness.
"He sure is, and some damn light floater at that."
Before I could analyze this reply the Floater himself stood in front of me.
"Who are you?" he demanded, sharply.
"Do you mean my name?"
"I don't care a damn about your name. What business had you to pick up that rug?"
"Only the business of wanting to help. I could see it wasn't a gentleman's job—and—and I—I thought you might take me on."
He danced with indignation.
"Take you on? Take you on? What do you mean by that?"