enough to see Bunny wrapped in a sheet and helped into the steam-room,
and then I hustles out for a late dinner. It's near nine-thirty before
I rings Mr. Robert up again, and reports that Bunny would pass a Board
of Health inspection now that he's had the face herbage removed, that
he's costumed proper and correct, and that he's decided not to die
immediate.

"Very well," says Mr. Robert. "What does he want to do now?"

"He wants to talk to you," says I.

"The deuce he does!" says Mr. Robert. "Well, I suppose we might as
well have it out; so bring him up here."

That's how it happens I'm rung in on this little club corner chat; for
Mr. Robert explains that whatever passes between 'em it might be as
well to have someone else hear.

And, say, what a diff'rence a little outside upholstery can make, eh?
The steamin' out had helped some, I expect, and a couple more glasses
of hot milk had braced him up too; but blamed if I'd expect just a
shave and a few open-face clothes could change a human ruin into such a
perky lookin' gent as this that leans back graceful against the leather
cushions and lights up one of Mr. Robert's imported cigarettes.
Course, the eye hollows hadn't been filled in, nor the face wrinkles
ironed out; but somehow they only gives him a sort of a distinguished
look. And now that his shoulders ain't slumped, and he's holdin' his
chin up once more, he's almost ornamental. He don't even seem
embarrassed at meetin' Mr. Robert again. If anyone was fussed, it was
the boss.