“Do you think we’re going to foist you off on our friends . . . ?”
“Easy!” said Joe. “There’s not going to be any foisting. You ought to know me. Wherever I go, I stand on my own bottom. I say to everybody: Eight years ago I was a dirty little ragamuffin on Sussex street. My father and mother made their living sewing on pants for a contractor. When I was hungry I stole things off the pushcarts to get me a meal.”
“It pays to tell that, eh?” sneered Bristed.
“You’re dead right, it pays,” said Joe. “The idea it suggests to the other person is: Look how far he’s risen! I never made any pretences. Don’t have to. That’s how I get along. People think it’s original. Everybody likes me except those who have lost money through me. If you could only see it, it’s your fine sentiments that keep you down. Bet your grandfather wasn’t troubled with them.
“Take this scheme that I propose—you wouldn’t exactly have to beat the drum for me, you know. I’m fairly notorious. The Boy Wonder of the Street. Folks high and low are curious to have a look at me. I’d be a social asset instead of a liability. I’ve noticed that family, blue blood and all that, don’t cut as much ice as they used to. Those people, having bored each other stiff, are now beginning to look around for a little outside entertainment . . . Of course I could climb up anyhow. But I don’t care to take the trouble to lay a regular campaign. Prefer to begin at the top . . . I like the girls up there,” he added grinning; “they’re so damned independent. Like me!”
“Damn you!” said Bristed under his breath.
“Keep the change!” said Joe cheerfully . . . “How much would it take to keep up your house in good style?”
“It’s not a big house,” muttered Bristed. “Ten thousand a year.”
“I’ll make it twelve thousand,” said Joe. “And what’s more, I’ll settle a good round sum on your mother in the beginning, so that when I no longer need you, she wont be left flat.”
“And what would we have to do, exactly, to earn it?” asked Bristed, sneering.