“Which one?” asked David, stepping to one side as a worried-looking individual dashed into the elevator.
“Insulting attorney,” said Bascomb, with a gesture toward the rapidly ascending car. “He has his troubles, too.—Which one? Oh, yes; the little one with the complexion and the starry orbs that make you want to say things to her. I called several times. Got used to being refused admittance to the repair shop. She was all to the lovely, though.”
David noticed Bascomb’s healthy color and remarked upon it.
“Yes. Been up among the fuzzies again. N. M. & Q. Were you going up to see the pater?”
“Don’t intend to, now I have seen you. Can you spare a little of your valuable time, Walt?”
“Sure! Glad to cut off a slice for you. How’ll you have it, hot or cold?”
“It will be—cold, I think,” replied David.
The Saturn was all but deserted, and they found a secluded corner where Bascomb, after giving an order, sank comfortably into one of the wide leather chairs.
“Sizz, Davy?” he asked, as a squat, emblazoned bottle and its accompanying siphon were placed at his elbow.
“Thank you—but it’s a trifle too early for me.”