"Eh?" says I, turnin' to Alvin. "You from a nut factory? Good night!"
"It's a whim of Uncle's," says Alvin, chucklin'. "He's gone a little cracked over making and saving money. Poor old chap! Ego developed most abnormally. But the Judge he took me before was that kind too; so I am compelled to live with Dr. Slade. Jolly crowd up there, though. Come along, Scully; we mustn't be late for dinner."
And off he goes, smilin' contented and friendly at anyone who happens to look his way. Wouldn't that crimp you?
Course, my first move after gettin' back to the studio was to dig that check of his out of the safe and query the bank. "No account here," the clerk 'phones back prompt, and I could see the Universal Liquid Container Company takin' a final plunge down the coal chute.
For days, though, I put off callin' the bunch together and announcin' the sad fact. More'n a week went by, and I was still dreadin' to do it. Then here this mornin' in romps young Blair Woodbury, his eyes sparklin' and a broad grin on his face. He's flourishin' a bundle about the size of a two weeks' fam'ly wash, and as he sees me he lets out a joy yelp.
"Well, why the riot?" says I. "What you got there?"
"Containers!" says he. "Old Nevins has got the compressor working. Sixty seconds to make these, my boy—two hundred in one minute! Count 'em!"
"I'll take your word for it," says I. "That's fine, too. But I'm carryin' all the comp'ny stock I can stand. Go out and convince some other come-ons."
"I don't have to," says he. "Why, during the last four days the issue has been oversubscribed. It was getting that Mr. Barton, of Pratt & Barton, on our list that turned the trick."
"Alvin!" I gasps. "Why—why, he's only a batty nephew, that they keep under guard. Bughouse, you know. His check's no good."