“Say, Henry–what’s a yogi?” Mr. Fenn refused to commit himself. Mr. Brotherton continued: “The Ex was in here the other day and she says that she thinks she’s going to become a yogi. I asked her to spell it, and I told her I’d be for her against all comers. Then she explained that a yogi was some kind of an adept who could transcend space and time, and–well say, I said ‘sure,’ and she went on to ask me if I was certain we were not thinking matter instead of realizing it, and I says:
“‘I bite; what’s the sell?’
“And the Ex says–‘Now, seriously, Mr. Brotherton, something tells me that you have in your mind, if you would only search it out, vague intimations, left-over impressions of the day you were an ox afield.’
363“And, well say, Henry, I says, ‘No, madam, it is an ass that rises in me betimes.’
“And the Ex says, ‘George Brotherton, you just never can talk sense.’
“So while I was wrapping up ‘Sappho’ and ordering her a book with a title that sounded like a college yell, she told me she was getting on a higher plane, and I bowed her out. Say, Hen–now wouldn’t that jar you?–the Ex getting on a higher plane.”
Mr. Fenn grinned–a sodden grin with a four days’ beard on it, and dirty teeth, and heavy eyes, then looked stupidly at the floor and sighed and said,
“George, did you know I’ve quit?” To Mr. Brotherton’s kindly smile the other man replied:
“Yes, sir, sawed ’er right off short–St. Patrick’s Day. I thought I’d ought to quit last Fourth of July–when I tried to eat a live pinwheel. I thought I had gone far enough.” He lifted up his burned-out eyes in the faded smile that once shone like an arc light, and said:
“Man’s a fool to get tangled up with liquor. George, when I get my board bill paid–I’m going to quit the auctioning line, and go back to law. But my landlady’s needing that money, and I’m a little behind–”