Moffatt laughed. "No, SIR—not by a good many miles."
Mr. Spragg removed his feet from the scrap basket and straightened himself in his chair.
"Well—I didn't either; good morning, Mr. Moffatt."
The young man stared a moment, a humorous glint in his small black eyes; but he made no motion to leave his seat. "Undine's to be married next week, isn't she?" he asked in a conversational tone.
Mr. Spragg's face blackened and he swung about in his revolving chair.
"You go to—"
Moffatt raised a deprecating hand. "Oh, you needn't warn me off. I don't want to be invited to the wedding. And I don't want to forbid the banns."
There was a derisive sound in Mr. Spragg's throat.
"But I DO want to get out of Driscoll's office," Moffatt imperturbably continued. "There's no future there for a fellow like me. I see things big. That's the reason Apex was too tight a fit for me. It's only the little fellows that succeed in little places. New York's my size—without a single alteration. I could prove it to you to-morrow if I could put my hand on fifty thousand dollars."
Mr. Spragg did not repeat his gesture of dismissal: he was once more listening guardedly but intently. Moffatt saw it and continued.