the skin. How he could get it in a wheel chair, though, I couldn't
figure out. Anyway, there wasn't time. Quick as he sees me he throws
in his reverse gear and comes to a stop between the portières.

"Well, young man," he raps out sharp and snappy, "who the particular
blazes are you?"

But, say, I've met too many peevish old parties to let a little jab
like that tie up my tongue.

"Me?" says I, settin' back easy in the armchair. "Oh, I'm a buyer
representin' a private collector."

"Buyer of what?" says he.

"Art," says I. "Just picked up a small lot,--that one with the Albany
night boat in it, you know."

He stares like he thought I was batty, and then rolls his chair over
closer. "Do I understand," says he, "that you have been buying a
picture--here?"

"Sure," says I. "Say, ain't you on yet, and you right in the house?
Well, you ought to get next."

"I mean to," says he. "Bladen's stuff, I suppose?"

"Uh-huh," says I. "And, believe me, Brooksy is some paint slinger;
that is, fine feelin', darin' technic, all that sort of dope."