dollars," Average Jones snorted gently, "is no reason why he should
unanimously elect himself a life member of the Sons of Idleness,"'
murmured Bertram.

He cast an eye around the uniquely decorated walls, upon which hung,
here, the shrieking prospectus of a mythical gold-mine; there a
small but venomous political placard, and on all sides examples of
the uncouth or unusual in paid print; exploitations of grotesque
quackeries; appeals, business-like, absurd, or even passionate, in
the form of "Wants;" threats thinly disguised as "Personals;"' dim
suggestions of crime, of fraud, of hope, of tragedy, of mania, all
decorated with the stars of "paid matter" or designated by the Adv.
sign, and each representing some case brought to A. Jones,
Ad-Visor--to quote his hybrid and expressive doorplate--by some one
of his numerous and incongruous clients.

"Something different?" repeated the visitor, reverting to Average
Jones' last observation. "Well, yes; I think so. Where is Bellair
Street?"

"Ask a directory. How should I know?" retorted the other lazily.
"Sounds like old Greenwich Village."

Bertram reached over with a cane of some pale, translucent green
wood, selected to match his pale green tie and the marvelous green
opal which held it in place, and prodded his friend severely in the
ribs. "Double-up Lucy; the sun is in the sky!" he proclaimed with
unwonted energy. "Listen. I cut this out of yesterday's Evening
Register. With my own fair hands I did it, to rouse you from your
shameless sloth. With your kind attention, ladies and gentlemen--"