“This is his third day, so Dill’s safe for to-morrow morning,” Brown hastened to assure him. “He’ll be up here early, so penitent that he’ll be incased in a blue fog—and he’ll certainly deliver the goods.”
Bobby sighed and gave it up. This was a new world.
Over in his dingy little office, up his dingy flight of stairs, Sam Stone sat at his bare and empty old desk, looking contemplatively out of the window, when Frank Sharpe—his luxuriant gray mustache in an extraordinary and most violent state of straggling curliness—came nervously bustling in with a copy of the Bulletin in his hand.
“Have you seen this?” he shrilled.
“Heard about it,” grunted Stone.
“But what do you think of it?” demanded Sharpe indignantly, and spread the paper out on the desk before the Boss, thumping it violently with his knuckles.
Stone studied it well, without the slightest change of expression upon his heavy features.
“It’s a swell likeness,” he quietly conceded, by and by.