"Win or lose," says I, "he's ducked bein' a parlor rat for life, which is something."
CHAPTER VIII
GUMMING GOPHER TO THE MAP
I'd heard the front office door pushed open and listened to a couple of heavy steps on the floor runner before I glances round to find this high party with the wide, stooped shoulders and the rugged face standin' there beamin' at me genial and folksy. In one hand he has a green cloth bag with somethin' square in it, and in the other he has a broad-brimmed soft hat about the color of Camembert cheese. A tank station delegate and no mistake!
"The Horse Dealers' Exchange is over east of Fourth avenue, about eight blocks down," says I.
He chuckles good-natured and shakes his head. "You got two more comin' to you, Brother," says he.
"Is it sawmill machinery you're lookin' for, then," says I, "or the home office of Marriage Bells?"
"Struck out!" says he. "Now it's my bat. Are you J. Bayard Steele, Mister?"