"One of the ostrich variety, my son,—seeing that the great auk is dead," said McLaughlin solemnly.
Skinner's voice faltered a bit. "You don't know, Mr. McLaughlin, and you, Mr. Perkins, how grateful I am for this opportunity. I—I—" He turned and left the room.
"It's pathetic, ain't it? I feel like a sneak, Perk," said McLaughlin.
"Pathetic, yes," said Perkins. "But it's for his good. If he's all right, we're vindicating him—if he is n't all right, we want to know it."
The "cage man" whistled softly to himself as he reflected that the awful day of confessing to Honey was deferred for an indefinite period. It was a respite. But what gave him profound satisfaction was the fact that McLaughlin and Perkins were beginning to realize that he could do something besides stand in a cage and count money. They had made him their plenipotentiary, McLaughlin said. Gad! That meant full power! By jingo! He kept on whistling, which was significant, for Skinner rarely whistled.
And for the first time in his career, when he smelt burning wood pulp and looked down at the line of messenger boys with a ready-made frown and caught the eyes of Mickey, the "littlest," smiling impudently at him, Skinner smiled back.
For the rest of the day, as Skinner sat in his cage, three things kept running through his head: he's a curmudgeon; she's a climber; and she doesn't climb. From these three things the "cage man" subconsciously evolved a proposition:—
Three persons would go to St. Paul, named in order of their importance: First, Skinner's dress suit; second, Honey; and third, Skinner.