“I think they would be more pleased if I complied with the formalities by proxy.”
“Shall I add you had a charming time?”
“You may use your own judgment.”
Bob walked to the door.
“I guess it’s I who am crazy,” said the maniac-doctor, again waking up.
CHAPTER XXIII—MAKING GOOD
Bob sent dad a modest-sized check the next day. “Result of hustling,” he wrote. “Spend freely. There’ll be more coming presently.” Then Bob went down on the narrow road that isn’t straight, but that has a crook in it. He stopped somewhere near the crook, and entering an office greeted a melancholy-looking man who had “bad business” and “country going to pot” written all over his face. The melancholy man was a club acquaintance.
“What’s the most abused and worst thing on the street that isn’t straight?” said Bob debonairly.
“That’s right. Call us names,” replied the melancholy man with a sigh. “Everybody’s doing it.”
“Have you got something so awful people turn their heads away when you speak of it?”