CHAPTER EIGHT

"THERE'S GOT TO BE A LINE DRAWED SOMEWHERES"


By seven o'clock in the morning,--since that was his ultimatum,--Luck
was standing in his bare feet and pajamas, acrimoniously arguing with
Martinson over the telephone. Usually he was up at six, but he was a
stubborn young man, and the day promised much rainfall, anyway. He
would have preferred sunshine; the stand he meant to take would have
had more weight in working weather. But since he could not prevent the
morning from being a rainy one, he permitted more determination to slip
into his tones.

Martinson had spent an unpleasant evening with Bently Brown, or so he
declared. He had called up several stockholders of the Acme, and had
talked the matter over with them, and--

"Well, cut the preamble, Mart," snapped Luck, trying to warm one foot by
rubbing it with the other one. "Do I go on with the work, or don't I?"

"From the looks of the weather--" Mart began to temporize.

"Weather cuts no figure with this matter. You know what I mean. What's
the decision?" Luck scowled at the pretty girl on his wall calendar, and
began to rub his right foot with the left and to curse the janitor with
that part of his brain not occupied with the conversation.

"Well, listen. You come out to the office, after awhile, and we'll go
into this matter calmly," begged Martinson. "No use in letting that