The room phone rang. “Hel-lo-o! Gentleman to see Mr. Drake—shall we show him up?”... “Use your own judgment; the last time I tried to show a man up he worked my face over.” Bring him up, the telephone meant. Mr. Drake desired particulars: “What is the gentleman’s silly name?”... “Jones. Cowpunch; six or seven feet up; incredibly sober.”... “Sure, Moike! Bring him along! Say, send some good smokes, will you?—and some swipes. What’s that? What do I mean, swipes? Beer, you idiot—beer!”
A clear eye, bright and black; a clean, fresh-colored skin; a frank and pleasant face—that was Ducky. He met his visitor at the door.
“Glad to see you, Mr. Neighbor—welcome to our well-known midst! Weather! Chair! How’s every little thing? You look chirpy enough. Shan’t I have breakfast sent up for you?”
“No, thank you; I got up at noon. You can give me a little help though.”
“Put it on the table, George. That’s all.” George, known in private life as Gregorio, departed, and Ducky turned to his guest. “Whaddy you mean—help?” he demanded, grinning sympathetically. “Did they put the kibosh on you good and proper after I quit last night?” He pushed the cigars over and began operations with a corkscrew.
“Oh, no—nothing like that. I want some advice.”
“Advice? This is the right shop.” Roger struck a Pecksniff pose, waved the corkscrew aloft, and declaimed grandly: “Put your eggs in one basket. Get on the wagon. Hitch your wagon to a star. Mind your step! When in doubt, play trumps. Be sure you’re ahead and then go right home.”
“Not advice exactly—information.”
“Oh!” said Ducky. “A straight line is the shortest distance between two points; the woman who hesitations is lost; a Cobb in the club is worth two in the bush; lead-pencil signatures are good in law; a receiver is as bad as a promoter; hospitality is the thief of time; absinthe makes the heart grow fonder.”
Neighbor shoved a bottle of beer into his host’s hand.