That stuns him for a minute, and then a light breaks. He throws another grin. "Oh, about a year," he says.
"Chee!" says I. "And they ain't put you on the board of directors yet?"
"I've managed to keep off so far," says he.
"Get a lift every quarter, though, I suppose?" says I.
"I'm getting the same salary I began with, if that's what you mean," says he, tacklin' another sandwich that had got past the meat inspectors.
"Yours must be fatter'n most of the Saturday prize packages they hand out in the general office, or you wouldn't have kept satisfied so long," says I.
He thinks that over for awhile, like it was a new proposition, and then he says, quiet and easy, "I'm not at all sure, you see, that I am satisfied."
"Why not chuck it then and make another grab?" says I. "It's good luck sometimes to shake the bag."
He swings his shoulders up at that,—and say, he's got a good pair, all right!—but he don't say a word.
"Ain't married the job, have you?" says I. "Or have you lost your nerve?"