“You certainly are,” he said enthusiastically. “I feel better already. I’m sure Mr. Bartlett will understand. Did you know he was coming to town today?”
“I did not,” returned Jimmy. “That’s a good exit cue, though. I haven’t the nerve to face him until this thing kind of blows over. I’ll duck under cover for twenty-four hours and let you break the news to mother. Slip him the real inside stuff. Maybe he’ll fall for it.”
Chester Bartlett was the maddest man in the entire state of Illinois when he read the story of the expose on the incoming train to Chicago that morning and the quips which were hurled at him by dozens of his friends in his club at luncheon gave substance and solidity to his rage. His interview with Mr. Denby was a stormy affair and his reaction to what Jimmy termed the “real inside stuff” was violent in the extreme. While still in the throes of his anger he wrote a brief message to the press agent which the erstwhile lecturer on far eastern affairs was requested to deliver in person to his friend.
Mr. Denby found Jimmy at his hotel immersed in the preparation of advertising copy. He looked up hopefully; Mr. Denby handed him the note in silence and he tore it open with a foreboding of disaster.
“No man can make me ridiculous and remain in my employ,” it ran. “You’re through the moment you receive this. You should never have encouraged such an affair as the romance Denby tells me about. As a matter of fact it was a foolhardy thing to try and palm that fellow off as a prince. You might have known you’d come a cropper sooner or later. You’ve got too many ideas for your own good and I’ll be satisfied to go along hereafter with someone who’s perhaps a little shy on brilliancy, but who’s long on balance.”
“Can you beat ’em,” inquired Jimmy, helplessly. “They’re all alike. No matter what you do you’re always in wrong.”
The telephone bell rang just then and he barked a rude “hello” into the transmitter. The voice at the other end was hearty and good-natured.
“Is that Mr. Martin—Mr. James T. Martin?—this is Easton talking—Easton—Junius P. Easton—thought I’d let you know that my sister is cured—can’t begin to thank you for what you did—tried to reciprocate this morning—told my brokers to carry a thousand shares of Consolidated Gutta Percha in your name—closed out at a quarter to three—ten point rise—you’ll get the check in the morning—had a little inside information, you know—did pretty well myself, too—say, you impress me as being a pretty clever sort of a lad—ever think of going into business on your own?—it’s the only game—why work for anyone?—think it over.”
Jimmy was still mumbling his thanks when the other excused himself and hung up. Mr. Denby, who hadn’t grasped the import of the telephonic conversation, betrayed an intense interest in the proceedings.