Ebner Ford slowly rose to his feet.
“Want any help?” he ventured as he watched Enoch dig a closed fist into the sleeve of his night-coat.
“Thank you,” said Enoch curtly, wrenching himself into the rest of the ulster, “I’m not so old but that I can dress myself.”
“What I’d like to say,” continued Ford, as Enoch searched the corners of the closet for his night-stick, found it, and started to turn down the Argand burner on the centre-table, “is—that it makes an almighty big difference what kind of a house you’re in—don’t it?—as I told Mrs. Ford, we couldn’t have struck a better place—folks in it make a difference, too. Don’t know when I’ve enjoyed myself more’n I did last night. Quite a party, Mr. Crane—you missed it. Big-hearted fellers, both of ’em. We certainly had a royal time. Sorry you couldn’t make it, friend—you were invited, of course——”
In reply, the Argand burner sank to a dull blue flame. Enoch led the way in the semidarkness to his door.
“Some day when you’ve got more time,” continued Ford, “I’d like to show you just about the slickest laundry plant this side of Broadway. What we done was to get the best machinery money can buy, and we’re not sorry. Take our flat work alone. Fourteen steam-mangles, and seven wringers—figure that out and you’ll see how much business we do a month. Stocks above par, Mr. Crane; no man could ask a better investment for his money. Now, there’s a hundred shares preferred that——”
“After you, sir,” said Enoch, as he slammed his door shut, turned the key in the lock, and hurried his unwelcome visitor before him down the creaky, carpeted stairs.
“At seven per cent,” rattled on Ford over his shoulder as he descended and halted at the Grimsby-Atwater door. “Think it over, neighbor.”
“I bid you good night, sir,” said Enoch, quickening his pace past him.
“Damn his impertinence!” he muttered to himself as he reached the front door, opened it, closed it with a click, and rushed for a horse-car en route to his club.