But talk like that don’t discourage Tutwater at all. He hangs onto his great scheme, keepin’ his eyes and ears open, writin’ letters when he can scare up money for postage, and insistin’ that sooner or later he’ll get his chance.
“Here is the place for such chances to occur,” says he, “and I know what I can do.”
“All right,” says I; “but if I was you I’d trail down some pavin’ job before the paper inner soles wore clean through.”
Course, how soon he hit the bread line wa’n’t any funeral of mine exactly, and he was a hopeless case anyway; but somehow I got to likin’ Tutwater more or less, and wishin’ there was some plan of applyin’ all that hot air of his in useful ways. I know of lots of stiffs with not half his brains that makes enough to ride around in taxis and order custom made shirts. He was gettin’ seedier every week, though, and I had it straight from the agent that it was only a question of a few days before that brass plate would have to come down.
And then, one noon as we was chinnin’ here in the front office, in blows a portly, red faced, stary eyed old party who seems kind of dazed and uncertain as to where he’s goin’. He looks first at Tutwater, and then at me.
“Same to you and many of ’em,” says I. “What’ll it be?”
“McCabe was the name,” says he; “Professor McCabe, I think. I had it written down somewhere; but——”
“Never mind,” says I. “This is the shop and I’m the right party. What then?”
“Perhaps you don’t know me?” says he, explorin’ his vest pockets sort of aimless with his fingers.
“That’s another good guess,” says I; “but there’s lots of time ahead of us.”