“Oh, well,” said Reggie consolingly, “one swallow doesn’t make a drink—I mean doesn’t make a summer. You know what that poetry fellah says that even Homer sometimes nods and Milton flaps his wing—or is it droops his wing? You can’t expect to win all the time, old top. You’ll get revenge the next time you go on the mound. We all come a cropper some time. I do myself. To tell the truth, I’m in a bloomin’ mess right now.”
“How’s that?” asked Joe with quickened interest, as they rose from the table and proceeded upstairs to his apartment.
“Why, it’s this way,” began Reggie, as he seated himself in a comfortable chair and carefully pulled out the knife-edged creases of his trousers. “I’ve been takin’ a little flier in stocks in Wall Street, an’ I’m afraid I’ve been jolly well done.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Joe. “You know what I think of playing the market. I hope you haven’t been stuck for much?”
“I’m afraid it may be as much as ten thousand dollars,” admitted Reggie ruefully.
Joe started from his chair.
“Ten thousand dollars!” he exclaimed, aghast.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE SPIDER AND THE FLY
“Have you dropped as much as that, Reggie?” asked Jim, sharing Joe’s astonishment.