“Something different?” repeated the visitor, reverting to Average Jones’ last observation. “Well, yes; I think so. Where is Bellair Street?”
“Ask a directory. How should I know?” retorted the other lazily. “Sounds like old Greenwich Village.”
Bertram reached over with a cane of some pale, translucent green wood, selected to match his pale green tie and the marvelous green opal which held it in place, and prodded his friend severely in the ribs. “Double-up Lucy; the sun is in the sky!” he proclaimed with unwonted energy. “Listen. I cut this out of yesterday’s Evening Register. With my own fair hands I did it, to rouse you from your shameless sloth. With your kind attention, ladies and gentlemen—” He read:
“WANTED—A young man, unattached, competent to act as assistant in outdoor scientific work. Manual skill as desirable as experience. Emolument for one month’s work generous. Man without family insisted upon. Apply after 8:30 P. M. in proper person. Smith, 74 Bellair Street.”
Slowly whirling in his chair, Average Jones held out a hand, received the clipping, read it through with attention, laid it on the desk, and yawned.
“Is that all?” said the indignant Bertram. “Do you notice that ‘unattached’ in the opening sentence? And the specification that the applicant must be without family? Doesn’t that inspire any notion above a yawn in your palsied processes of mind?”
“It does; several notions. I yawned,” explained Average Jones with dignity, “because I perceive with pain that I shall have to go to work. What do you make of the thing, yourself?”
“Well, this man Smith—”
“What man Smith?”
“Smith, of 74 Bellair Street, who signs the ad.”