It wa'n't until afterwards, either, when I'm busy throwin' on the
screen pictures of how that extra five'll fat up the Saturday pay
envelope, that I remembers the exact wordin' of the contract. Five for
every satisfactory report. Gee! that's different! Then here's where I
got to see that Mortimer behaves, or else I lose out. And I don't
waste any time plannin' the campaign. I tackles him as he strolls out
thirty seconds ahead of the twelve o'clock whistle.

"After another one of them clubby lunches?" says I.

"What's that to you?" he growls.

"I'm interested, that's all," says I.

"Oh, no, you're not," says he; "you're just fresh."

"Ah, come now, Morty," says I. "This ain't no reg'lar feud we're
indulgin' in, you know. Ditch the rude retort and lemme tow you to a
joint where for----"

"Thanks," says Mortimer. "I prefer my own company."

"Gee! what poor taste!" says I.

And it looked like I'd gone and bugged any five-spot prospects with my
first try.

So I lets Mortimer simmer for a few days, not makin' any more cracks,
friendly or otherwise. I was about to hand in a blank report too, when
one noon he sort of hesitates as he passes the desk, and then stops.