There was a file case in the corner, with many drawers bearing neat labels inscribed with such titles as “Greene County Coal”; “Cement Reports”; “Bank Statements”, and “U. S. Treasurer”. He pulled out a drawer labeled “U. S. Treasurer” and carelessly turned over its contents—several pairs of gloves in a variety of shades.
“Rather a neat thing in chiffonniers,” he remarked.
Van Cleve was staring at him in amazement. He never ceased to wonder at Balcomb.
“This, my friend, is designed for the edification of rubbernecks. The titles are rather impressive, and they are not all a sham. But if you’re in a hurry to change your necktie at any time come in, old man, and try on one of mine. You’ll find an assortment of new spring shades under ‘Missouri Zinc.’”
Van Cleve grinned his appreciation.
“You ought to have gone on the stage, Balcomb. Your province is art, not commerce.”
“Don’t worry, my dear young friend from the banks of La Belle Rivière. Now before I go on my perilous journey to see the ancient Dameron—”
He pulled out a drawer labeled “Kentucky Central R. R.”
“This is no deception at all,” he continued, as he took out a bottle of whisky and a glass. “It’s from Kentucky; it’s for central application,”—tapping his chest—“and it’s rare rye. On the water wagon? I don’t often indulge myself; but it’s well to prepare oneself before going up against a hard frost. Now”—his manner changing—“we’ve got to increase our capital stock; you’d better get busy in the intervals of your engrossing professional duties and do something real noble in that line.”
He gave Van Cleve a memorandum of what he wanted and walked out briskly, disposing of several callers who waited in the outer office, where the typewriters rattled tirelessly.