"Are you done with those proofs?" some one asked.
"Take them away," he said, without looking up. He sat for a long time, musing, and then he shook himself, a habit which he had lately formed in trying to free himself from meditations that sought to possess him.
He went out to luncheon, and just as he was going into a restaurant some one spoke to him. It was old man Colton.
"My dear Mr. Witherspoon," said the old man, "come and have a bite to eat with me. Ah, come on, now; no excuse. Let's go this way. I know of a place that will just suit you. This way. I'm no hand for clubs—they bore me; they are newfangled."
The old man conducted him into a basement restaurant not noticeable for cleanliness, but strong with a smell of mutton.
"Now, suppose we try a little broth," said the old man, when they had sat down. "Two bowls of mutton broth," he added, speaking to the waiter. "Ah," he went on, "you may talk about your dishes, but at noontime there is nothing that can touch broth. And besides," he added, in a whisper, "there's no robbery in broth. These restaurant fellows are skinners of the worst order. I'll tell you, my dear Mr. Witherspoon, everything teaches us to practice economy. We must do it; it's the saving clause of life. Now, what could be better than this? Go back to work, and your head's clear. My dear Mr. Witherspoon, if I had been a spendthrift, I should not only be a pauper—I should have been dead long ago."
He continued to talk on the virtues of economy. "Won't you have some more broth?"
"No, thank you."
"Won't you have something else?" he asked, in a tone that implied extreme fear.
"No, I'm not hungry to-day."