“Mrs. Arty’s nearly as fat as I am, but she can be pretty spry if there’s something she can do for you. Nice crowd there, too except that Teddem—he’s one of these here Willy-boy actors, always out of work; I guess Mrs. Arty is kind of sorry for him. Say, Wrenn—you seem to me like a good fellow—why don’t you get acquainted with the bunch? Maybe you’d like to move up there some time. You was telling me about what a cranky old party your landlady is. Anyway, come on up there to dinner. On me. Got anything on for next Monday evening?”
“N-no.”
“Come on up then——East Thirtieth.”
“Gee, I’d like to!”
“Well, why don’t you, then? Get there about six. Ask for me. Monday. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday I don’t have to get to the store evenings. Come on; you’ll find out if you like the place.”
“By jiminy, I will!” Mr. Wrenn slapped the table, socially.
At last he was “through, just through with loafing around and not getting acquainted,” he told himself. He was tired of Zapps. There was nothing to Zapps. He would go up to Mrs. Arty’s and now—he was going to find Morton. Next morning, marveling at himself for not having done this easy task before, he telephoned to the Pennsylvania Railroad offices, asked for Morton, and in one-half minute heard:
“Yes? This is Harry Morton.”
“Hullo, Mr. Morton! I’ll just bet you can’t guess who this is.”
“I guess you’ve got me.”