Somehow I sensed it as a kind of a batty excursion at the start. You
see, he'd asked me offhand would I come, and I'd said "Sure, Bo,"
careless like, not thinkin' any more about it until here Saturday
afternoon I finds myself on the way to spend the week-end with J.
Meredith Stidler.

Sounds imposing don't it? But his name's the weightiest part of J.
Meredith. Course, around the Corrugated offices we call him Merry, and
some of the bond clerks even get it Miss Mary; which ain't hardly fair,
for while he's no husky, rough-neck specimen, there's no sissy streak
in him, either. Just one of these neat, finicky featherweights, J.
Meredith is; a well finished two-by-four, with more polish than punch.
You know the kind,--fussy about his clothes, gen'rally has a pink or
something in his coat lapel, hair always just so, and carries a vest
pocket mirror. We ain't got a classier dresser in the shop. Not
noisy, you understand: quiet grays, as a rule; but made for him special
and fittin' snug around the collar.

Near thirty, I should guess Merry was, and single, of course. No head
of a fam'ly would be sportin' custom-made shoes and sleeve monograms,
or havin' his nails manicured reg'lar twice a week. I'd often wondered
how he could do it too, on seventy-five dollars a month.

For J. Meredith wa'n't even boss of his department. He just holds down
one of the stools in the audit branch, where he has about as much show
of gettin' a raise as a pavin' block has of bein' blown up Broadway on
a windy day. We got a lot of material like that in the
Corrugated,--just plain, simple cogs in a big dividend-producin'
machine, grindin' along steady and patient, and their places easy
filled when one wears out. A caster off one of the rolltop desks would