Peter finished, leaned back, mopped his forehead. “The books,” he murmured, waving a vague hand toward the shelves. “Where are they?”
“I'm through with books. Going in for reality.”
“Oh,” mused the eminent playwright—“a girl.”
“Pete, you're wonderful.”
“Chucking your whole past life?”
“It's chucked.” Then the Worm hesitated. For a moment his breath nearly failed him. He stood balancing on the brink of the unknown; and he knew he had to make the plunge. “Pete—I've got a few hundred stuck away—and, anyhow, I'm going out for a real job.”
“A job! You! What kind?”
“Oh—newspaper man, maybe. I want the address—who is your tailor?”
Peter jotted it down. “By the way,” he said, “here's our itinerary. Stick it in your pocket.” Then he gazed at the Worm in a sort of solemn humor. “So the leopard is changing his spots,” he mused.
“I don't know about that,” replied the Worm, flushing,' then reduced to a grin—as he pocketed the tailor's address—“but this particular Ethiop is sure going to make a stab at changing his skin.”