"My God!" And the limp Englishman of the sandwich boards made a long lean streak toward the door. Minot leaped after him, and dragged him back.
"Here, Trimmer," he said, "your proposition has chilblains."
"What's the trouble?" Mr. Trimmer glared about him.
"Allow me," said Minot. "Sir—our leading vaudeville actor and his manager. Gentlemen—Mr. George Harrowby, of Chicago!"
"Sit down, boys," said Mr. Harrowby genially. He indicated a chair to Mr. Trimmer, but that gentleman stood, his eyes frozen to the face of his proposition. The Chicago man turned to that same proposition. "Brace up, Jenkins," he said. "Nobody will hurt you."
But Jenkins could not brace. He allowed Minot to deposit his limp body in a chair.
"I thought you was dead, sir," he mumbled.
"A common mistake," smiled George Harrowby. "My family has thought the same, and I've been too busy making automobiles to tell them differently. Mr. Trimmer, will you have a—what's the matter, man?"
For Mr. Trimmer was standing, purple, over his proposition.
"I want to get this straight," he said with assumed calm. "See here, you cringing cur—what does this mean?"