"Ow, yes!" says I, rememberin' my lines. "Um-m-m-m-m! Fine feelin'.
Very darin' too, very! And when it comes to the tech stuff--why, it's
there in clusters. Much obliged--er--that is, I guess you can send
this one. Mr. Robert Ellins. That's right. Charge and send."

Maybe he wasn't used to makin' such quick sales; for he stares at me
sort of puzzled, and when I turns to Marjorie she's all pinked up like
a strawberry sundae and is smotherin' a giggle with her mesh purse. I
don't know why, either. Strikes me I'd put it over kind of smooth; but
as there seems to be a slip somewhere it's me for the rapid back-away.

"Thanks, that'll be all to-day," I goes on, "and--and I'll be waitin'
downstairs, Marjorie."

She don't stop me; so I pushes through the mob at the tea table,
collects my coat and lid, and slips down to the first floor, where I
wanders into the drawin' room. No arty decorations here. Instead of
pictures and plaster casts, the walls are hung with all kinds of
mounted heads and horns, and the floor is covered with odd-lookin' skin
rugs,--tigers, lions, and such.

I'd been waitin' there sometime, inspectin' the still life menagerie,
when all of a sudden in from the hall rolls one of these invalid
wheeled chairs with a funny little old bald-headed gent manipulatin'
levers. What hair he has left is real white, and most of his face is
covered with a thin growth of close-cropped white whiskers; but under
the frosty shrubb'ry, as well as over all the bare space, he's colored
up as bright as a bottle of maraschino cherries. It's the sort of
sunburn a sandy complexion gets on; but not in a month or a year. You
know? One of these blond Eskimo tints, that seems to go clear through