"Oh, yes; a stuffer, a glutton without a purse."
Richmond laughed. "Hunger may force a man to apparent gluttony," he said, "and a sandbagger may have taken his purse; and all on his part is honesty. But there is pretense—which I hold is not honest—in an effort to be an epicure."
"Ah, which you hold is not honest. A most rare but truthful avowal, since nothing you hold is honest."
"In my willingness to help the weak," Richmond replied, "I have held your overcoat while you put it on."
"And it was not an honest covering until you took your hands off."
"Neither did it cover honesty until some other man put it on by mistake," Richmond rejoined.
DeGolyer went to his office, and Richmond and McGlenn, wrangling as they walked along, betook themselves to the Press Club. "I tell you," said McGlenn, as they were going up the stairs, "that he needs our sympathy. He has suffered, but having suffered, he is great."
Thus the weeks were sprinkled with light incidents, and thus the days dripped into the past—and a designated future was drawing near.
"Well," Witherspoon remarked one Sunday morning, "the time set by your insane friend will soon be up."
"Yes, within a week," DeGolyer replied.