“Devil a shoe! I can’t do anything. I’m in wrong—everywhere.”
Groot gave gloomy assent. “I guess that’s just about right,” said he.
“You see, Mr. Groot,” Falcontent began to explain, a blithering loquacity obviously impending, “the trouble with me is——”
“Don’t tell me!” Groot ejaculated, alarmed. “I know what’s the trouble with you.”
“But you can’t know, Mr. Groot!” Falcontent’s voice was rising in morbid agitation. “I haven’t spoken with you—about this.”
“No salesman of mine can run himself to hell in this town,” Groot declared, thin-lipped, his gray eyes flashing resentfully, “without my knowing pretty much what’s the matter with him.”
Falcontent flushed. “Well?” he inquired.
“You run over to the Holy Land for a while,” said Groot, smiling a little, rubbing his lean hands like a Sunday-school Superintendent. “That’ll fix you up. It fixed me.” He sighed; his eyes sparkled wistfully. “I wish I could go along with you,” he added. “I’d—almighty like to.”
Falcontent laughed softly. “Holy Land!” he scoffed.
“You want action, don’t you?” Groot demanded, grimly. “Well, a little visit to the Holy Land will make you or break you. Now—you go!”