Mortimer scoops into his trousers pockets, fishin' up a silver knife, a
gold cigar clipper, and seventeen cents cash.

"Well, well!" says I. "That is gettin' down to hardpan! It's breakin'
one of my business rules, but I see where I underwrite your lunch
ticket for the next few days."

"You mean you're going to stake me?" says he. "But why?"

"Well, it ain't on account of your winnin' ways," says I.

"Humph!" says he. "Here! You may have this stickpin as security."

"Gwan!" says I. "I ain't no loan shark. Maybe I'm just makin' an
investment in you. Come on to Max's."

I could see Mortimer's nose begin to turn up as we crowds in at a table
where a couple of packers from the china store next door was doin' the
sword swallowin' act. "What a noisy, messy place!" says he.

"The service ain't quite up to Louis Martin's, that's a fact," says I;
"but then, there's no extra charge for the butter and toothpicks."

We tried the dairy lunch next time; but he don't like that much better.
Pushin' up to the coffee urn with the mob, and havin' a tongue sandwich
slammed down in front of him by a grub hustler that hadn't been to a
manicure lately was only a couple of the details Mortimer shies at.

"Ah, you'll soon get to overlook little things like that," says I.