"Now don't get peeved," says I; "but you know the kind our directors are,—flossy, silk-lined old sports, most of 'em; and they're apt to size up strangers a good deal by their haberdashery. So I was wonderin' if I couldn't blow you to a neat, pleated bosom effect with attached cuffs."
"Oh, I see," says Rowley, glancin' at his gray flannel workin' shirt. "Anything else?"
"I don't expect you'd want to part with that face shrubbery, or have it landscaped into a Vandyke, eh?" says I. "You know they ain't wearin' the bushy kind now in supertax circles."
"Would you insist on my being manicured too?" says he, chucklin' easy.
"It would help," says I. "And this would be my buy all round."
"That's a generous offer, Son," says he, "and I don't know how long it's been since anyone has taken so much personal interest in Old Hen Rowley. Seems nice too. I suppose I am rather a shabby old duffer to be visiting the offices of great and good corporations. Yes, I'll spruce up a bit; and if I find it costs more than I can afford—now let's see how my cash stands."
With that he digs into a hip pocket and unlimbers a roll of corn-tinted kale the size of your wrist. Maybe they wa'n't all hundreds clear to the core, but that's what was on the outside.
"Whiffo!" says I. "Excuse me for classin' you so near the bread line; but by your campin' in a loft, and the longshoreman's shirt, and so on——"
"Very natural, Son," he breaks in. "And I see your point all the clearer. I've no business going about so. The whiskers shall be trimmed. But your people up at the Corrugated have evidently made up their minds to turn us down."
"Maybe," says I; "but if they do, it won't be on any snap decision of Briscoe's. And unless I get tongue tied at the last minute we're goin' to have a run for our money."