“I—I am—well, never mind the name,” says he, brushin’ one hand over his eyes. “I—I’ve mislaid it.”
“Eh?” says I.
“It’s no matter,” says he, beginnin’ to ramble on again. “But I own a great deal of property in the city, and my head has been troubling me lately, and I heard you could help me. I’ll pay you well, you know. I—I’ll give you the Brooklyn Bridge.”
“Wha-a-at’s that?” I gasps. “Say, couldn’t you make it Madison Square Garden? I could get rent out of that.”
“Well, if you prefer,” says he, without crackin’ a smile.
“And this is Mr. Tutwater,” says I. “He ought to be in on this. What’ll yours be, Tutty?”
Say, for a minute or so I couldn’t make out whether the old party was really off his chump or what. He’s a well dressed, prosperous lookin’ gent, a good deal on the retired broker type, and I didn’t know but he might be some friend of Pyramid Gordon’s who’d strayed in here to hand me a josh before signin’ on for a course of lessons.
Next thing we knew, though, he slumps down in my desk chair, leans back comf’table, sighs sort of contented, smiles a batty, foolish smile at us, and then closes his eyes. Another second and he’s snorin’ away as peaceful as you please.
“Well, say!” says I to Tutwater. “What do you think of that, now? Does he take this for a free lodgin’ house, or Central Park? Looks like it was up to me to ring for the wagon.”
“Don’t,” says Tutwater. “The police handle these cases so stupidly. His mind has been affected, possibly from some shock, and he is physically exhausted.”