“Oh, well; you can’t make a silk purse out of a sardine’s tail,” observed Copeland, reflectively. “And I fear that Ezra is a sardine.”
“Excuse me,”—and Copeland went suddenly to the window and looked out over the tops of the maples in the club yard.
“What are you looking for—an answer in the stars?”
“No; there’s a big Chicago jobber in town to-day—sells more ice-boxes than any man in the business, and I was taking note of the weather signs. He’s a high sky man. You can’t do anything with him on a cloudy day. You see, I’m selling for next year’s delivery, and I need a bright sunny day for that chap. A little warmth in the air is a powerful reminder that summer is coming. Of course you can sell refrigerators in the dead of winter, but you need a hot room to do it in. We keep our office at a temperature of eighty degrees all winter, so that when we catch a buyer, we create a sort of torrid zone for him. It helps business, but occasionally one dies of pneumonia from subsequent exposure. However, in such cases of mortality our Supreme Court has held—”
“Well, you can file a brief, old man. We have this other business on hand now.”
They went in to their luncheon and when they came out into the club office Copeland scanned the bulletin board as he felt in his pocket for a cigar.
“J. Arthur Balcomb,” he read from one of the applications for membership that had just been posted. Then he looked at Leighton.
“Is that your autograph, or is it forged?”
“It’s mine. He asked me to indorse for him; and I didn’t have the sand to refuse. He’s been trying to break in for several years.”
“That’s all right. I will save you any embarrassment.” And Copeland took a penknife from his pocket, and pried out the tacks by which the application was fastened to the board, then folded the paper very carefully into a long strip.