"You ought to, Harry." Duncan struggled to rouse himself to share in the spirit of gratulation with which Kellogg was bubbling. "I'm mighty glad, old man. It's a great step up for you."
"It's all of that. You could have knocked me over with a feather when Bartlett sprang it on me this morning. Of course, I was expecting something—a boost in salary, or something like that. Bartlett knew that other houses in the Street had made me offers—I've been pretty lucky of late and pulled off one or two rather big deals—but a partnership with L.J. Bartlett—! Think of it, Nat!"
"I'm thinking of it—and it's great."
"It'll keep me mighty busy," Kellogg blundered blindly on; "it means a lot of extra work—but you know I like to work...."
"That's right, you do," agreed Duncan drearily. "It's queer to me—it must be a great thing to like to work."
"You bet it's a great thing; why, I couldn't exist if I couldn't work. You remember that time I laid off for a month in the country—for my health's sake? I'll never forget it: hanging round all the time with my hands empty—everyone else with something to do. I wouldn't go through with it again for a fortune. Never felt so useless and in the way—"
"But," interrupted Duncan, knitting his brows as he grappled with this problem, "you were independent, weren't you? You had money—could pay your board?"
"Of course; nevertheless, I felt in the way."
"That's funny...."
"It's straight."