"Well?" says I. "Algernon who?"
"Tell him it was for Melville Slater," says he. "He'll know."
"Melly Slater, eh?" says I. "Sounds all aright. But I'd have to chew it over first, even for a half. I have chances of gettin' stung like this about four times a day, Melly. And, anyway, I got to file a message first, over at the next corner."
"I'll wait outside," says he.
"That's nice of you," says I. "It ain't any cinch you'll connect, though."
But as I dashes into a hotel where there's a blue sign out he leans up against a window gratin', sort of limp and exhausted, and it looks like he means to take a sportin' chance.
How you goin' to tell, anyway? Most of 'em say they've been thrown out of work by the trusts, but that they've heard of a job in Newark, or Bridgeport, or somewhere, which they could get if they could only rustle enough coin to pay the fare. And they'll add interestin' details about havin' a sick wife, or maybe four hungry kids, and so on.
But this rusty bunch of works has a new variation. He's an old friend of the boss. Maybe it was partly so too. If it was—well, I got to thinkin' that over while the operator was countin' the words, and so the next thing I does is to walk over to the telephone queen and have her call up Mr. Robert.
"Well?" says he, impatient.
"It's Torchy again," says I. "I've filed the message, all right. But, say, there's a piece of human junk that I collected from in front of the club who's tryin' to panhandle me for a half on the strength of bein' an old chum of yours. He says his name's Melville Slater."