"One of us," George protested with profound conviction, "is plumb loony in the head!"
"It's me," said P. Sybarite humbly: "I admit it.... And the worst of it is—I like it! So would you if you'd been through a Day of Days."
George let that pass; for the moment he was otherwise engaged in vain speculation as to the appearance of a phenomenon rather rare in the calendar of that West Thirty-eighth Street boarding-house.
A Western Union boy, weary with the weariness of not less than forty summers, was shuffling in at the gate.
"Sa-ay!" he called with the asperity of ingrained ennui—"either of youse guys know a guy named Perceval Sybarite 't lives here?"
Silently P. Sybarite held out his hand, took the greasy little book in its black oil-cloth binding, scrawled his signature in the proper blank, and received the message in its sealed yellow envelope.
"Wait," he commanded calmly, eyeing Western Union with suspicion.
"W'at's eatin' you? Is they an answer?"
"They ain't no answer," P. Sybarite admitted.
"Well, whatcha want? I got no time to stick round here kiddin'."