tried to be, but the Business Manager was a Lightning Calculator, and he
Surmised that the Bunk was about to be Handed to him. The Cold Chills
went down his Spine when he caught a Flash of the Half-Morocco
Prospectus.

If it had been a Man Agent he would have shouted "Sick 'em" and reached
for a Paper-Weight. But when the Agent has the Venus de Milo beaten on
Points and Style, and when the Way the Skirt sets isn't so Poor, and she
is Coy and introduces the Startled Fawn way of backing up without
getting any farther away, and when she comes on with short Steps, and he
gets the remote Swish of the Real Silk, to say nothing of the Faint
Aroma of New-Mown Hay, and her Hesitating Manner seems to ask, "Have I
or have I not met a Friend?"--in a Case of that kind, the Victim is just
the same as Strapped to the Operating-Table. He has about One Chance in
a Million.

The timorous but trusting little Grass Widow sat beside the Business
Manager and told him her Hard-Luck Story in low, bird-like Notes. She
said she was the only Support of her Little Boy, who was attending a
Military School at Syracuse, N.Y. She turned the Liquid Orbs on him and
had him to the Bad. He thought he would tell her that already he had
more Books at Home than he could get on the Shelves, but when he tried
to Talk he only Yammered. She Kept on with her little Song, and Smiled
all the Time, and sat a little Closer, and he got so Dizzy he had to
lock his Legs under the Office Chair to keep from Sinking Away.

[Illustration: GRASS WIDOW]

When she had him in the Hypnotic State she pushed the Silver Pencil into
his Right Hand, and showed him where to sign his Name. He wrote it,