It was while pondering these matters that Bobby, dropping in at the Idlers’ Club one dull night, found no one there but Silas Trimmer’s son-in-law, the vapid and dissolute Clarence Smythe, which was a trifle worse than finding the place entirely deserted. To-night Clarence was in possession of what was known at the Idlers’ as “one of Smythe’s soggy buns,” and despite countless snubs in the past he seized upon Bobby as a receptacle for his woes.
“I’m going to leave this town for good, Burnit!” he declared without any preliminaries, having waited so long to convey this startling and important information that salutations were entirely forgotten.
“For good! For whose good?” inquired Bobby.
“Mine,” responded Clarence. “This town’s gone to the bow-wows. It’s in the hands of a lot of pikers. There’s no chance to make big money any more.”
“Yes, I know,” said Bobby dryly; “I had something to do with that, myself.”
“It was a fine lot of muck-raking you did,” charged Clarence. “Well, I’ll give you another item for your paper. I have resigned from the Consolidated.”
“It was cruel of you.”
“It was time,” said Clarence, ignoring the flippancy. “Something’s going to drop over there.”
Bobby smiled.
“It’s always dropping,” he agreed.