Following the other’s example, Roberts lit a cigar, big and black, and sat puffing in judicial expectancy.
“It’s what you’d call a darned good offer,” explained Armstrong: “position as chemist to 14 the Graham Specialty Company, who are building the factory over on the East side—perfumes and toilet preparations and that sort of thing.”
“Yes.”
“Graham himself came to see me. As a matter of fact he’s the whole company. He labored with me for two hours. I had to manufacture an engagement out of whole cloth to get away.”
“And you decided—”
“I didn’t decide. I took the matter under advisement.”
“Which means that you did decide after all.”
Armstrong grimaced in a mannerism all his own, an action that ended in an all-expressive shrug. “I suppose so,” he admitted reluctantly.
“I hardly see where I can be of service then,” commented the other. “If you were ten years younger and a minor and I your guardian—”
“You might point out with your yardstick how many kinds of an idiot I am and stir me up.”