“Mebbe,” admitted Mr. Files, his fishy gaze revealing that he had no personal knowledge of the parties mentioned. “It's the old story, all right. Widdereritis, and a bad run of it.”
The bagman had a scarfpin in the shape of a horse shoe. His comment was in line with his taste in adornment. “Files, old scout, if a colt is put to harness so early that he can't get his natural fling in the fields, he'll have it at the other end of his life, when he's let run to pasture, spavin or no spavin. Why don't Egypt hold off and let Uncle What's-his-name enjoy his new hair and hopes?”
“He has known how to collect in the money that's due him,” stated Mr. Files, “compound interest and all! He was only getting back his investments. But he has never put out any of the kind of capital that earns liking or respect or love. He has woke up to what he has been missing. He's trying to collect what he has never invested. And he can't do it, mister! No, sir, he can't!”
The drummer was a young man. He asked a natural question. “Isn't the girl willing to be an old man's darling?”
“You might go over to Britt's bank and ask her,” suggested Mr. Files, crisply. “She's bookkeeper there. But you'd better not let that young fellow that's cashier overhear you.”
“So that's it? Say, events in Egypt in the near future may make some of the mummies here sit up and take notice!”
“Shouldn't wonder a mite,” agreed Mr. Files, beginning to gather up the dishes.