in among the leather chairs and Oriental rugs.

Standin' in the middle of the room, with his feet wide apart, is Mr.
Adams, like he was waitin' impatient. You'd hardly call him sick abed.
I expect it would take a subway smash to dent him any. But, if his man
fails to look the part of better days gone by, Ham Adams is the true
picture of a seedy sport. His padded silk dressin'-gown is fringed
along the cuffs, and one of the shoulder seams is split; his slippers
are run over; and his shirt should have gone to the wash last week.
Also his chin is decorated in two places with surgeon's tape and has a
thick growth of stubble on it. As I drifts in he's makin' a bum
attempt to' roll a cigarette and is gazin' disgusted at the result.

"Why didn't Bob come himself?" he demands peevish.

"Rush of business," says I. "He'd been takin' time off and the work
piled up on him."

"Humph!" says Adams. "Well, I've got to see him, that's all."

"In that case," says I, "you ought to drop around about--"

"Out of the question," says he. "Look at me. Been trying to shave
myself. Besides-- Well, I can't!"

"Mr. Robert thought," I goes on, "that you might--"

"Well?" breaks in Mr. Adams, turnin' his back on me sudden and glarin'
at the draperies. "What is it, Nivens?"