“Dressed up for the monthly meeting of the Farmers’ Alliance, all but the oil on his hair. He forgot that,” chuckled the accountant.
“He’s got a fine chance in Nuh Yawk—of buying a gold brick cheap,” prophesied the worldly Wickert out of the depths of his metropolitan experience. “Somebody ought to put him onto himself.”
A voice from the darkened window above said, with composure, “That will be all right. I’ll apply to you for advice.”
“Oh, Gee!” whispered young Wickert, in appeal to his companion. “How long’s he been there?”
Acute hearing, it appeared, was an attribute of the man above, for he answered at once:
“Just put my head out for a breath of air when I heard your kind expressions of solicitude. Why? Did I miss something that came earlier?”
Mr. Hainer melted unostentatiously into the darkness. While young Wickert was debating whether his pride would allow him to follow this prudent example, the subject of their over-frank discussion appeared at his elbow. Evidently he was as light of foot as he was quick of ear. Meditating briefly upon these physical qualities, young Wickert said, in a deprecatory tone:
“We didn’t mean to get fresh with you. It was just talk.”
“Very interesting talk.”
Wickert produced a suspiciously jeweled case. “Have a cigarette?”