Now he’s a big, husky, full blooded young gent, that’s always used himself well, never collected any bad habits, and knows no more about being sick than a cat knows about swimmin’. Add to that the fact that he’s one of the unemployed rich, with more money than he knows how to spend, and you can figure out how surprised I am to see that down and out look on his face. Course, I thinks something serious has been happenin’ to him, and I treats him real gentle.
“Hello, Mr. Jarvis!” says I. “Somebody been throwin’ the hooks into you, have they?”
“Oh, no,” says he. “No, I—I’m all right.”
“That’s good,” says I. “Dropped in to let me hand you a few vibrations with the mitts?”
“No, thank you, Shorty,” says he, fingerin’ a chair-back sort of hesitatin’, as if he didn’t know whether to sit down or stand up. “That is—er—I think I don’t care for a bout to-day. I—I’m hardly in the mood, you see.”
“Just as you say,” says I. “Have a seat, anyway. Sure! That one; it’s reserved for you. Maybe you come in to enjoy some of my polite and refined conversation?”
“Why—er—the fact is, Shorty,” says he, fixin’ his tie kind of nervous, “I—I don’t know just why I did come in. I think I started for the club, and as I was passing by in a cab I looked up here at your windows—and—and——”
“Of course,” says I, soothin’. “What’s the use goin’ to the club when the Physical Culture Studio is handier? You’re feelin’ fine as silk; how’re you lookin’?”
“Eh? Beg pardon?” says he, gettin’ twisted up on that mothy gag. “Oh, I see! I’m looking rotten, thank you, and feeling the same.”
“G’wan!” says I. “You ain’t got any license to have feelin’s like that. Guess you got the symptoms mixed. But where do you think it hurts most?”