And what do you guess? He takes five minutes of steady chinnin’ to get around to it; but he puts over such a velvety line of talk, and it’s so int’restin’ to watch him do it, that I let him spiel ahead until he gets to the enactin’ clause in his own way. And it’s nothing more or less than a brassy fingered touch for a twenty, all based on the fact that he met me at a house where his wife’s drawin’ wages.
“Mr. Gordon,” says I, turnin’ to Pyramid, who’s heard it all, “what do you think of that, anyway?”
“Very neat, indeed,” says Pyramid, chucklin’.
“And then a few!” says I. “I can almost see myself givin’ up that twenty right off the bat. Nothing but great presence of mind and wonderful self-control holds me back. But look here, Mr. What’s-your-name——”
“Marston,” says he, flashin’ an engraved visitin’ card, “L. Egbert Marston.”
“L. Egbert, eh?” says I. “Does the L stand for Limed? And what do they call you for short—Eggie?”
“Oh, suit yourself,” says he, with a careless wave of the hand.
“All right, Eggie,” says I; “but before we get in any deeper I’ve got a conundrum or two to spring on you. We got kind of curious, Pinckney and me, about that visit of yours. He thinks we disturbed a fond embrace. It looked diff’rent to me. I thought I could see finger-marks on the young lady’s throat. How about it?”
Course he flushes up. Any man would under a jab like that, and I looked for him either to begin breakin’ the peace or start lyin’ out of it. There’s considerable beef to Egbert, you know. He’d probably weigh in at a hundred and eighty, with all that flabby meat on him, and if it wa’n’t for that sort of cheap look to his face you might take him for a real man. But he don’t show any more fight than a cow. He don’t even put in any indignant “Not guilty!” He just shrugs his shoulders and indulges in a sickly laugh.
“It doesn’t sound nice,” says he; “but sometimes they do need a bit of training, these women.”