“Well, I’d rather have an ugly stove that would draw and give heat than a fine one that wouldn’t,” B. B. declared; and Wint said he did not blame him. B. B. sat down at his desk, working and talking at the same time. This was a way he had; a way he had to have, for there was nearly always some one in the office to talk to him. Wint said:
“I almost forgot about my meeting to-night. Are you still willing to preside?”
B. B. said: “Certainly.”
“I thought you might have changed your mind.”
“No indeed. At the Rink, is it?”
“Yes.”
“Who are your speakers?”
“I’m not having any fine talent,” Wint said, smiling. “Just a couple of good friends of mine, Sam O’Brien and Davy Morgan. And if you’d be willing to say something—”
“Oh, I always talk when I get a chance like that.”
“Sure.”