Presley jumped up, and caught Annixter about the shoulders with one arm, gripping his hand hard. This absurd figure, with dangling silk suspenders, lathered chin, and tearful eyes, seemed to be suddenly invested with true nobility. Beside this blundering struggle to do right, to help his fellows, Presley's own vague schemes, glittering systems of reconstruction, collapsed to ruin, and he himself, with all his refinement, with all his poetry, culture, and education, stood, a bungler at the world's workbench.
“You're all RIGHT, old man,” he exclaimed, unable to think of anything adequate. “You're all right. That's the way to talk, and here, by the way, I brought you a box of cigars.”
Annixter stared as Presley laid the box on the edge of the washstand.
“Old fool,” he remarked, “what in hell did you do that for?”
“Oh, just for fun.”
“I suppose they're rotten stinkodoras, or you wouldn't give 'em away.”
“This cringing gratitude—” Presley began.
“Shut up,” shouted Annixter, and the incident was closed.
Annixter resumed his shaving, and Presley lit a cigarette.
“Any news from Washington?” he queried.