“Yes, you’ve got to use a harpoon to get anything through that rhinoceros’ hide of egotism of yours.” He fastened a stern and foreboding eye upon Mr. Jones. “Do you want to die?” he inquired.
Mr. Jones sought the motive behind the startling question. “What’s going to kill me?” he demanded.
“Lack of air.” Kelly’s answer was obscure. It was too general. He thought it necessary to restate it with modifying amendments. “The lack of good fresh air,” he concluded.
“Oh,” said Mr. Jones, apparently much relieved at the distinction made.
“You want to get out into the air and breathe,” Kelly explained as if the stenographer were carelessly given to omit this function.
“I don’t have the time.” Mr. Jones visualized a dignified stroll over a golf links.
Kelly gave thought to the difficulty. “A motorcycle would be the thing,” he decided.
The effect upon Mr. Jones would have been no different if Kelly had prescribed an aeroplane or a submarine. “I can’t ride a motorcycle, and even if I could, where can I get one?” he objected.
“That’s the point.” Kelly was as enthusiastic as a life insurance agent. “I have a friend who has one. He nearly killed himself on it and now he is in the hospital. I’ll bet that he is tired of it and will sell it cheap.”
“What do I want with the thing if it nearly killed him?” Mr. Jones protested logically.