“You’re not! Oh, now, look here! May and I talked it over and decided we’d offer you a junior partnership right off the bat, and now you—what’s wrong?”
“You’re awfully kind,” said Stacey, “but honestly I can’t—and I swear I don’t know why. I give you my word I couldn’t draw plans for a—bill-board at present.”
“Fiddlesticks!”
“Sorry!” Stacey remarked. “But that’s the way it is.” He smiled ironically. “All this returned-soldier-restlessness stuff, you know.”
Mr. Parkins considered him closely. “Now what have you gone and done to yourself?” he observed at last. “You look like Stacey Carroll, yet you don’t seem quite like him. I believe,” he added, with a laugh, “I really believe I’m half afraid of you. You’re a—”
“Little changeling, yes,” said Stacey, bored. “Now listen, Mr. Parkins,” he went on quickly. “There’s something I want to ask you to do for me. It’ll be a favor to me and a good turn to yourself at the same time.” And he stated Philip Blair’s case, without mentioning his name.
“Well,” said Mr. Parkins thoughtfully, “it might be done, of course. We’ll need a new man, since you’re not coming back for now—confound you! But what we need is a good safe man. Is your friend—what’s his name, by the way?”
“Philip Blair.”
Mr. Parkins uttered an exclamation. “Oh, I’ve seen his work!” he said. “Happened on a perfect wonder of a library he did in a small New York town. The villagers disliked it immensely. I asked about him afterward. He’s the real thing; but the idea of your recommending him to me as a safe man! It’s outrageous!”
“He’ll be as safe as you like,” Stacey insisted. “Five years of what he’s been trying to do would have crushed the danger out of an anarchist. Try him.”