Clancy gave him the “handle,” and the two shook hands.
“Now that you’ve pulled me out o’ that diffukilty,” remarked James Montague Fortune, “what do you opine to do with me, huh?”
CHAPTER II.
JIMMIE FORTUNE.
Fortune had the sort of good-natured face that reflects an easy-going disposition. He was about as handsome as Owen Clancy, which is the same as saying that he would never be hung for his good looks, but his face was attractive for all that. His nose was a “snub,” and his eyes were narrow, and crinkled all around where a perennial smile had puckered them and left its marks.
Handsome is as handsome does, always, and it was safe to say that James Montague Fortune, while a peculiar chap in some respects, possessed a cheerful soul and a nature most companionable.
“What am I going to do with you?” repeated Clancy, studying Fortune with humorous eyes. “That’s not my business, is it? This is a free country, and you’re your own boss.”
“Sure,” was the reply, “but I’m tired of bein’ my own boss. It’s too big a job and I ain’t able to swing it. I’m right smart of a feller, Clancy, and husky and able more’n I can tell, but I’ll be dad-binged if I’m much of a success. How’d you like to sign me on for my board and keep and, say, fifty plunks a month? Huh?”
Clancy threw back his red head and burst into a laugh.
“Where’s the joke?” asked Fortune.