"What in hell do you suppose it all means, Burton?" he demanded. "You see, I've got it too!"
"Obviously," Burton answered. "I am sure," he added, a little hesitatingly, "that I congratulate you."
Mr. Waddington at that moment looked scarcely a subject for congratulation. A spasm, as though of pain, had suddenly passed across his face. He clutched at the sides of his chair.
"It's marvelous!" he murmured. "A single word like that and I suffer in an absolutely indescribable sort of way. There seems to be something pulling at me all the time, even when it rises to my lips."
"I shouldn't worry about that," Burton replied. "You must get out of the habit. It's quite easy. I expect very soon you will find all desire to use strong language has disappeared entirely."
Mr. Waddington was inclined to be gloomy.
"That's all very well," he declared, "but I've my living to get."
"You seem to be doing pretty well up to now," Burton reminded him.
Mr. Waddington assented, but without enthusiasm.
"It can't last, Burton," he said. "I am ashamed to say it, but all my crowd have got so accustomed to hear me—er—exaggerate, that they disbelieve everything I say as a matter of habit. I tell them now that the goods I am offering are not what they should be, because I can't help it, and they think it's because I have some deep game up my sleeve, or because I do not want to part. I give them a week or so at the most, Burton—no more."