“Eh, thanks,” says Pyramid.
“We’ll admit,” says I, “that your partic’lar way of raisin’ funds, Mr. Marston, ain’t exactly novel; but didn’t it ever occur to you that some folks get theirs by workin’ for it?”
“I know,” says he, tryin’ to seem good natured again; “but I’m not that kind. I’m an idler. As some poet has put it, ‘Useless I linger, a cumberer here.’”
“You’re a cucumber, all right,” says I; “but why not, just for a change, make a stab at gettin’ a job?”
“I’ve had several,” says he, “and never could hold one more than a week. Too monotonous, for one thing; and then, in these offices, one is thrown among so many ill bred persons, you know.”
“Sure!” says I, feelin’ my temper’ture risin’. “Parties that had rather work for a pay envelope than choke their wives. I’ve met ’em. I’ve heard of your kind too, Egbert; but you’re the first specimen I ever got real close to. And you’re a bird! Mr. Gordon, shall I chuck him through the window, or help him downstairs with my toe?”
“I wouldn’t do either,” says Pyramid. “In fact, I think I can make use of this young man.”
“Then you’re welcome to him,” says I. “Blaze ahead.”
“Much obliged,” says Pyramid. “Now, Mr. Marston, what is the most reasonable sum, per month, that would allow you to carry out your idea of being a gentleman?”
Egbert thinks that over a minute and then puts it at three hundred.