“No, I do not,” said Pinney. He turned to Cyrus the Gaunt.
“When do I git that job?” he asked.
“Tazmun”
A TALE OF WHITE MAGIC IN OUR SQUARE
STRANGERS in Our Square stop and stare at No. 17. In itself the house is unremarkable; a dull, brown rectangle with a faintly mildewed air about the cornices. It is this sign on the front which attracts the startled notice of the wayfarer:—
THE ANGEL OF DEATH
One Flight Up and Ring Bell
To us of the Square the placard is a commonplace, and the Angel of Death just Boggs, a chunky, bristly little man with gold teeth and a weak, meek, peanut-whistle voice, who conducts not a private bomb factory or a suicide club.
Taxmun formed romantics hopefully surmise upon a first reading, but a worthy though humble enterprise of hygiene and cleanliness more specifically set forth in the legend running, crimson, across the top of his business card:—