“What’s up?” he questioned.
“Consolidated Gutta Percha,” replied Jimmy. “Want a job?”
“You know I do. Who with?”
“Why with me, of course, you old highbrow. And look here. Don’t you go palmin’ off any fake dukes or rajahs or anythin’ like that. If you do you’ll get the bum’s rush and I won’t take the trouble to write you a letter about it, either.”
Mr. Denby raised a deprecatory hand.
“I’ll promise to be good,” he said, “but may I be permitted to ask another question?”
“Shoot—while the shootin’s good.”
“Well, then, in the parlance of the theatrical profession—with which, I take it, we are still to be identified—‘where do we go from here?’”
Jimmy pulled a pink letter out of an inside pocket and proffered it to his friend with a flourish.
“Cedar Rapids is our next stand, you old adjective hound,” he said heartily. “Take a look at this little message.”