"As you was just sayin'," says I, "don't mind me. Anyway, I guess this
is my exit cue."

I tries to swap a grin with Nivens as I slips through the door. But
there's nothing doing. He's standin' in front of the mirror decidin'
just where he shall amputate those whiskers.

First off Mr. Robert wouldn't believe it at all. Insists I'm feedin'
him some fairy tale. But when I gives him all the details, closin'
with a sketch of Ham startin' dazed for the back bathroom, he just
rocks in his chair and 'most chokes over it.

"By George!" says he. "Ham Adams turning valet to his own man! Oh,
that is rich! But far be it from me to interfere with the ways of a
mysterious Providence. Besides, in six months or so his income will
probably be coming in again. Meanwhile-- Well, we will see how it
works out."

That was five or six weeks ago, and not until Tuesday last does either
of us hear another word. Mr. Robert he'd been too busy; and as for me,
I'd had no call. Still, being within a couple of blocks of the place,
I thought I might stroll past. I even hangs up outside the entrance a
few minutes, on the chance that one or the other of 'em might be goin'
in or out, I'd about given up though, and was startin' off, when I
almost bumps into someone dodgin' down the basement steps.

It's Ham Adams, with a bottle of gasoline in one hand and a bundle of
laundry under his arm. Looks sprucer and snappier than I'd ever seen
him before, too. And that sour, surly look is all gone. Why, he's
almost smilin'.